


The Sleeping Dwemer's Guide to Tamriel

by helygen2017



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls Online, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Modern Character in Skyrim, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Warnings May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:29:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 50,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22816252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helygen2017/pseuds/helygen2017
Summary: History has recorded that the Dwemer disappeared under mysterious circumstances many millennia ago. They were a resourceful people possessing wonderous technology, knowledge, and wealth, but at the pinnacle of their mastery over their world, they vanished entirely. Or did they?This is the tale of the last Dwemer who awakens to find themselves in a far different world than they left.
Comments: 95
Kudos: 130





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shout out to the Skyrim fans in my writer's group for encouraging me to write this story, and to [Paraparadigm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paraparadigm/pseuds/paraparadigm) for alpha- and beta-reading this first chapter to get it off the ground! Any errors are entirely my own.

## Prologue

My dreams are filled with the sibilant sound of escaping steam, the whir of flywheels, and the rhythmic clank of metal cogs stepping through the gears one lash at a time. The constant noises are comforting in their way, like a mother’s heartbeat, echoing through the darkness of the womb.

My nightmares are different. They are filled with the horror of artificial silence, hunger and desperation, and the acrid scent of sweaty fear. The nightmares seem both immediate and distant in my mind and I do not like to dwell upon them.

I don’t know if my eyes are open or closed; darkness envelopes me in a constant state with no relief. I am neither warm nor cold. I cannot feel my body, assuming that is, that I still have one. I’m not aware of the passage of time, a blessing and a curse that I will come to understand later.

## Chapter 1

“Carefully now. We do not know what dangers may await us.” A ball of light zoomed into the middle of the pitch-black room then hovered lazily, rising slowly toward the ceiling of the cavernous space. “We don’t need a repeat of yesterday.”

Status: Initializing…

“Understood, professor,” a male stated, nervously clearing their throat.

“Dwemer ruins are notorious riddled with traps. Wards at the ready. Phinis, a little bit more light, if you please.”

Six people, five humans and an Argonian, cautiously entered the room, their eyes darting from shadow to shadow, looking for dangers. A middle-aged man, balding and with a confident stride, came first, sending globes of light up into the air. The two younger human men, twin brothers and Nords by appearance, jostled each other as they came through the door. A Redguard woman walked cautiously next to the Argonian. An elderly looking man, grey hair and beard neatly trimmed despite the unkempt look of his robes, brought up the rear.

Several more globes of light shot into the room distributing themselves into a ring, illuminating the space with a pale blue light. Smooth stone walls gleamed with collected moisture and crystallized mineral deposits. Rays of light, weak and watery, filtered down through the fractured stone. Metal glinted in the wavering light, twinkling in and out of view as the balls of light shifted on the air currents created by steam that rose from the single piece of machinery still working. 

“Remarkable, simply remarkable,” the elder stated, craning his head to look around. “These ruins are unlike any we’ve discovered previously. Carefully now.”

The room was circular in shape with only the single door they entered by. At the center of the room stood a narrow waist-high pedestal with two rows of buttons, a single button glowed with a green light. Fanning out from it by narrow metal conduits were a dozen larger tubes, circling the available space like markers on an incomplete sundial. Most tubes were dulled and broken, but one glowed like polished moonstone in the magelight.

“Never have we seen construction such as these. Remarkable.”

“Yes, Professor Tolfdir.” The younger members of the group looked at each other and rolled their eyes at the elder’s rambling. None of them had any real interest in being there but as the oldest apprentices at the college, they had the dubious honour of being farmed out for such research expeditions.

Above each tube, ominously familiar round metal hatches were pressed into the wall. They were not the usual dull gold of dwarven metal either but silver, pitted and tarnished black with age. Nonetheless, these were easily recognized by the explorers. Most were ajar and empty, their contents of sleek silver metallic spiders, lay broken and dormant on the crumbling stone floor. Several hatches remained closed despite the broken tubes, but from within one, a green gem began to glow. The gem slowly rotated within the gyroscope housing that served as the spider’s head to focus on the interlopers.

Status: Analyzing…

“Look!” one of the Nords, the nervous male, stated excitedly, “one of them is still working!” He hurried forward, tripped over one of the conduits and froze at the ominous clacking of metal on metal.

When nothing further happened, everyone gave a slow sigh of relief.

“Apprentice Rundi! Would you please restrain yourself… by the door!” The professor’s voice had slipped from its normal calm tone to something much sharper and impatient.

“Yes, professor. I’m sorry, professor.” He carefully walked back past the group, slouching his head and shoulders forward with shame. His brother shoved his shoulder as he passed, making him stagger slightly.

“Borvir! This is neither the time nor the place for roughhousing of that nature.”

“Sorry, professor.”

“Now, where were we—?” Tolfdir muttered to himself, sounding bemused, before his eyes lit up with renewed focus. “Ah, yes. It is truly remarkable to see equipment of this age still functional! You can see that even here, the walls and floor have fractured with the upheaval of the mountain at some time during the past; however, the ingenuity and redundancy of the Dwemer design has allowed the machinery to continue to function despite damages.”

“What do they do exactly?” The Redguard, Yisra, asked, cocking her head to the side as she carefully studied the steam outlet on the single working tube.

“We have no idea.” The students stopped in their tracks and turned back to look at him with an assortment of incredulous and confused looks on their faces. “We have only recently discovered two of these ruins and they significantly pre-date the oldest known ruins of Nchuand-Zel, Alftand, or Bthardamz. Those ruins do not contain these circular vaults. They are an intriguing curiosity. Perhaps it would be best to have Calcelmo join us before we proceed further.” He turned around and looked startled to find a student at the door. “Oh! Borvir…”

“Yes, professor?” Borvir replied, standing next to him.

“Oh!” Tolfdir blinked repeatedly, then realized he had confused the twins. “No, no. Rundi—please fetch Master Calcelmo from the other chamber. Tell him we have a working example.”

While they waited, the students carefully examined the silent tubes and compared them to the single working one. The tubes, slightly longer than the average Altmer and wider than a Nord, were oval in shape instead of the expected round. The surface was slightly warm to the touch, slick as polished marble in some places, pitted and rough in others with the accumulation of minerals similar to the deposits on the surrounding walls. Pairs of pipes entered and exited either end, with gauges marked with illegible figures. Only the gauges on the functional tube flickered to suggest some unknown activity within. 

“This tube is open,” Borvir said sticking his fingers under the edge of what looked like a lid and lifted. A loud creak of hinges made everyone freeze in their tracks.

Status: threat assessment pending...

The gem turned yellow and its legs flexed for the first time in millennia, the joints popping with a soft hiss of steam.

The tube was empty except from some sort of mineral deposit fused to the inside bottom of the surface that he scratched at with his fingernails. “What do you suppose was in them?”

“It’s hard to say. They could have been storage tanks for fuel or food. Perhaps fermentation…”

Borvir threw his hands up into the air as his brother returned with the Altmer mage, Calcelmo. “Dwemer mead!”

Phinis shook his head and rubbed at his temples in frustration at his students’ behaviour. He wasn’t the only one as their fellow student, Yisra curled her lip in disgust. “You and your stupid mead. One day you’ll freeze to death toasting to your own stupidity.”

“Now, now… Master Calcelmo. The students have found a working example of the Dwemer devices.”

“So your student said Master Tolfdir, although I very much doubt that,” Calcelmo said as he strode into the room, shooing the students out of the way as he entered, “but I suppose I can see what you have found. Ah!” He walked around the tube that continued to emit a jet of steam with perfect mechanical timing. He walked around the adjacent tube that had been pulled open. “Fascinating. There is no outward sign of hinges or latches, and yet they can be opened. But how? There must be some mechanism—”

“What about this?” Rundi asked, running his finger over the green light on the pedestal.

“Do not push—” Phinis called as the button depressed under Rundi’s finger.

Status: unauthorized input...awaiting bypass command...

The gem started to pulse.

The room fell abruptly silent as the methodic rhythm of the device’s gears ground to a halt and the vent of steam tapered off with a waning hiss.

“How many times must you be told—"

“Of all the stupid—"

Status: eliminate threat...

The gem turned red as the weapons system activated.

A loud chime rang startling them all into silence. They had never heard such a thing before in a Dwemer ruin. It nearly drowned out the swish of the remaining hatches on the walls, opening and spilling out their mechanical eight-legged guardians. 

The spiders rapidly climbed over their fallen brethren, their metal legs tapping sharply on the stone floors as they advanced. Lightning arced through the air sizzling across hastily erected barriers.

Spikes of ice exploded against the spiders sending them tumbling across the floor only to right themselves with acrobatic leaps before charging back at the mages, razor-sharp edges slashing against fabric and flesh.

“Ice doesn’t work!” Rundi screamed, tripping over his own feet as he retreated.

“Then use fire, ice-brain,” Yisri barked, blasting the spider advancing on the scrambling Nord with a fireball. The spider flipping onto its back, legs kicking, then burst apart in a shower of sparks.

“Don’t panic. Work together now,” Phinis called out as he brought his conjured sword down onto a spider.

“Remember your wards, apprentices!” Tolfdir reminded them, his own glowing blue ward crackled but held firm against a bolt of lightning.

The spiders were vastly outnumbered and quickly overpowered by the mages. The final spider staggered upright again on its remaining five legs, two of which dragged on the floor from broken joints. It snapped its single functional scissor-like front legs aggressively at the intruders before being slammed back against the wall with a glancing ball of fire.

The spider’s inner workings hissed and spun in a mindless effort to fulfill its directive. The gem pulsed with red light, weaker than before.

Status: critical failure…

It burst apart in a shower of sparks and scattered legs to collapse in a silent heap.

The mages panted with exertion, sucking in gasps of ozone scorched air, all the while glaring daggers at a now-sheepish Rundi. “Sorry.”

“And that, young man, is why we do not go pushing buttons with abandon like a skooma-raddled khaj—”

A loud crack echoed off the stones abruptly ending Calcelmo’s tirade. Wards and destruction spells bloomed as they all rapidly scanned the room for new threats. Their hands slowly lowered as nothing came at them. Indeed, even the alarm bell had fallen silent.

“Oh, it’s leaking!” Yisra exclaimed, jumping back from the previously functioning device as a gold-coloured, viscous fluid started to pour out of the tube and splashed onto her shoes. The device had become hinged like its counterparts and was rapidly losing its contents.

“Quickly now,” Calcelmo darted forward with surprising agility, holding out a flask pulled from the inner folds of his voluminous robes, “get a sample before it all runs away.”

“Ew!” she protested even as she held the glass under the slowing flow of liquid. She held her hand up and rubbed her fingers together. It felt creamy, not greasy or sticky as she had expected. She wrinkled her nose; it was still disgusting. She wiped her fingers on Borvir’s shirt.

“Hey!”

“Well, I think there is no longer any harm in opening this the rest of the way, do you?” Tolfdir asked Calcelmo.

“No. I think what’s done is done. Let’s take a look inside.”

The lid opened smoothly after some initial resistance and more fluid spilled out to reveal the contents.

“Xarxes Backside!” Calcelmo exclaimed in an uncharacteristic display of shock.

“Is that—is that—” 

They stared in stunned amazement at what appeared to be a female body, coated in the remnants of the golden liquid, lying in repose at the heart of the tube.

“A Dwemer,” Calcelmo said in awe upon finally collecting himself. “This is the find of a lifetime. All my research, my work as the pre-eminent scholar—”

The body jerked once, then again; gold fluid started to bubble at the mouth.

“It’s alive!”

“Nonsense. That’s not possible.”

Phinis gestured with his hands and each one of them in the room glowed with a red light in reaction to the life detection spell he had cast. And so, too, did the body before them.

“It’s not possible. To be alive after having slept for seven thousand years—”

The body jerked again, less violently, with another bubble of fluid rising from the mouth to burst and spill over the cheeks. The lingering red glow of the spell began to flicker.

“If we don’t do something quickly,” Phinis barked at them, “it’s not going to live for very long. It’s drowning!”

Ilas-Tei, the Argonian, jumped forward, “turn it on its side to drain the lungs. Dryskins are always drowning.”

“Yes, carefully now,” Tolfdir directed them.

“It’s softer than I expected,” Borvir said, his hands were wrapped over the hip and thigh.

“What did you expect? Metal?” Yisra asked, wrinkling her nose at the draining fluid as she held the head steady.

“Well yeah,” he said with a shrug. “Dwemer made things out of metal.”

“They _made_ things out of metal, but they weren’t constructed of metal themselves, you frost-brain.”

“Apprentices! There that should do it. Carefully now, onto the back.” Tolfdir stood up and looked to Calcelmo. “Now what should we do?”

He waved his hand at the now breathing body. “I study ruins. I don’t know anything about caring for—” he waved his hand again, “bodies, persons. You look after it. You have healers, restoration experts at the college. If it survives, I’ll have questions. Until then, it's your responsibility,” he added as he strode out of the room.

Tolfdir scratched at his beard thoughtfully. “Well then. Suggestions?”


	2. Chapter 2

The last of the stew, if one could call it such, was scraped out and dividing evenly, at Daniel’s insistence when I tried to give him a larger portion, between the two bowls. The spoon rattled with a sombre finality in the pot. I wasn’t sure what we were going to eat next or even when. My cleverly wrought greenhouse, complete with steam vent to keep the surrounding ground and air warm enough for growth, had plenty of potatoes and wild garlic sprouts started but they wouldn’t produce anything meaningful for us to eat any time soon.

I handed him the bowl and sat down cross-legged on the bench next to him, pulling my blanket around my shoulders before leaning back against the western wall of our tiny house to soak up the last bit of radiant heat. It should have been warmer for an August evening but so many things had changed drastically in a span of a few months.

“Eat up. That’s the last of it.”

Absently spooning the food into my mouth, I considered what there was left to trade. I was reluctant to give up the spare blankets as we had no idea how cold the winter was going to get but that wouldn’t make much difference if we starved to death first. I knew that Daniel would continue to sneak something out for me from the facility if he could, but even that seemed to be dwindling along with the government issued rations distributed for those of us outside the walls providing labour. Sooner or later, I was going to bite the bullet and learn to hunt or be willing to give up something in trade to those that did.

I licked out the last bit of gravy from the bowl and looked at Daniel’s bowl, cradled untouched on his lap. “Something wrong with the stew?”

He looked down at his bowl like he was surprised to see it there. A tremor went through his body and in slow motion he seemed to collapse inward on himself. He buried his face in his hands and his shoulders shook with the force of his silent sobs.

Quickly taking the bowl of stew from his lap to set it safely aside, I rubbed his back. “Tell me.”

He lowered his hands. “They’re closing the doors tomorrow. My supervisor told me, although I’m sure he wasn’t supposed to. Anyone left outside…”

He trailed off and got a far-away look in his eyes and I knew he was thinking about Michael, his partner who left months ago to be with his elderly parents for what remaining time we had. I was still angry that he left us, left Daniel, but I understood that everyone needed to do what they felt was best at times like these.

“Okay.”

He blinked and looked at me. “I’ve seen the projections. You’re not…I mean—"

“Well, yeah. That’s why it’s called an Extinction Level Event, genius.” I nudged him playfully with my shoulder and grabbed his hands in mine. “It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fiiiiiine!”

He cringed as he always did whenever I sang and gave me a watery smile. “That’s really not funny, you know.”

“Yeah, it kind of is.” I smiled at him, a tight-lipped smile belying the clenched teeth as I fought my stomach’s desire to bring up my food at the thought of my impending demise.

Apparently, I wasn’t as successful as I had hoped, and he continued to look morose.

“Look, not everyone is essential to the survival of humanity. Wicked-smart people like you; you’re going to get us through this. The new world order doesn’t need someone like me whose most impressive list of accomplishments culminated at growing hothouse flowers. Even if they are particularly skilled at shovelling shit.”

That got a hint of a smile from him. “Don’t forget your vocabulary.”

“I would never! Impressive repertoire aside, they need people to repopulate and I can’t do that either.” He gave me The LookTM. “Yeah, well, there’s such as thing as AI and I’m not even useful for that.”

“It’s just,” he pulled his hands free and gesticulated like he did when he was agitated, “it’s not fair. I just—” He let his hands fall back into his lap, defeated. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Daniel. It’s not your fault—” He opened his mouth to argue but I got there first. “Nor your responsibility.” I tossed my hair over my shoulder and gave him my best saucy, come-hither look which was totally wasted on him. “Besides, I’ve just been biding my time until I can get you off my hands. Then I’m heading south. Build myself a harem of hot young men to keep me company into my dotage.” He laughed then, to my relief.

“I think… I think I’ll take a walk,” he said, getting up to brush some invisible dust from his trousers. A habit from better times. “Finish up my dinner. Don’t let it go to waste. Don’t wait up for me, I’ll be late.”

“All right.” I blinked furiously at the sudden burn of tears; I knew that this was good-bye. “Daniel…” He paused without turning around. “Take a sweater. It gets cold.”

He nodded. “I love you too, hen.”

I gathered the bowls, the spare blankets from the bench and found myself smiling fondly at the pet name as I watched him walk down the path and into the darkness. Inside the house was quite dim with only the lingering glow of the cook fire to provide any light. I was of half a mind to stir up the fire to a blazing inferno, but we didn’t waste resources on something as trivial as lighting.

Setting the bowls on the table, I crossed the short distance from the fire to the water barrel for enough water to heat to clean the dishes and put the pot over the fire to heat. The stew had become a congealed mass in the bowl; it was all that I could do to choke down another spoonful before the rest was scooped out and flung it into the fire in a fit of anger. The fire blazed up for a brief moment, a mockery of the source of this disaster, illuminating the tiny house that I was likely going to die in, from starvation or cold, within a matter of weeks.

Daniel was right. It wasn’t fair. “Important” people—yes, I could see the air-quotes around my sarcasm—politicians, lawyers, and celebrities had been trickling in and disappearing into the facility, to be saved and wait out the disaster in their shiny, technological arks. Self-absorbed octogenarian billionaires paying for a few more years while children were left outside to await their fate with the rest of us.

I dropped the bowls in the pot of hot water and left it beside the well-banked fire, then crawled into my bed, still dressed, pulling the blankets around my head. Who would care if I left the dishes unwashed until the morning? I stared into the deep red coals as my eyelids got heavier and heavier and I let myself drift off to sleep.

I don’t remember falling asleep nor any idea how long I had when I woke to Daniel frantically shaking my shoulder. “Issie, wake up! Come on, we have to go!”

“What?” I sat up slowly, blinking in confusion. I was never an easy riser and from the angle of the moonlight shining through the open front door, it was still hours to dawn.

“We have to go.” Forcing my cotton runners onto my feet then my hoodie over my head, he grabbed my hand, hauling me to my feet and out the door without bothering to close it behind us. “Hurry.”

I stumbled after him for a moment before digging my feet into the gravel in a panic. If we left the house as it was, we’d come back to find everything gone. I was certain that people would even find my little garden and rip it to shreds for whatever meager bits they thought they could take. “Wait,” I hissed. “We can’t leave the house like that!”

“It doesn’t matter. We aren’t coming back.” He tugged on my hand to get me moving again setting a quick pace. I had jog to keep up with his longer legs. “Come on, we have to go now.”

“What do you mean we’re not coming back? Where are we going?”

“To the facility.”

I could tell we were heading in that direction simply from the downhill trajectory of our path, but he wasn’t leading us along the well travelled road but adjacent to it, weaving us in and out of the rocks, keeping to the shadows. Soon the mountain the facility was built into cast us further into shadow as we got closer to the entrance.

“Why—”

He pulled me down sharply behind some rocks and clamped his hand over my mouth. A security patrol with spotlights affixed to their rifles swung in our direction. After a few heart stopping seconds, the beam moved away from us.

“Trust me, okay?” He lowered his hand as I nodded behind it. “I’m going to sneak you in.” He urged me up onto my knees to peer over the rock. “See the door there?” A solitary light illuminating the single man-sized door set within the larger pair of doors embedded in the mountain face. “There is a deep spot hidden from the light to the left. Sneak around and meet me there.”

I clutched at his sleeve, suddenly afraid; afraid of the guards, the guns, and ironically, of being killed. “What are you going to do?” I whispered frantically.

“I have to open the door with my pass. I’m going to have to go talk to them—” He pointed to a pair of armed guards that leaned lazily against a crude set of barriers about ten or fifteen feet from our destination, their rifles tucked under their elbows. “I have to show my credentials, otherwise they’ll shoot on sight if I suddenly show up behind them to open the door.”

Even in the dark with just the light of the waning moon, I could see the tension in his face. I could certainly smell the sharp scent of sweat on both of us and prayed that the guards wouldn’t get close enough to him to notice. I nodded.

“Wait until I get their attention, then slip in.” He tugged the hood of my hoodie up to hide my pale face. “Go.”

My breaths were so loud in my own ears, never mind the crunch of gravel under my feet, that I was afraid that I’d be caught at any moment. A twig snapped, like a gunshot in the dark, freezing me in my tracks. Surely, the guards would have heard and would come to investigate? But no one did. Instead they were focused on Daniel’s approach.

He was nearly at the guards, but I was still at least thirty feet out from where I needed to be. Hurrying to get in place in time, I didn’t see the tough leathery root that effectively snagged my foot sending me crashing to my hands and knees. I clamped my mouth shut against the bolt of pain shooting through my ankle and the gravel burn on my palms. No guards turned in my direction and I released my held breath with a whimper. Back on my feet, wincing at the pain in my ankle—it wasn’t broken, fortunately, just sprained—I continued more carefully until I finally managed to duck into the deep shadows.

Daniel stepped aside for me to slip past him as he opened the door. Inside was not what I expected. I had thought being that deep within the mountain would be cold and dry and silent. Instead, it was warm, damp, and thrummed with energy. Oddly, I had the impression of a big steam engine like those you’d see at rail museums, despite seeing nothing of the sort within the stone corridor we stood in.

I wasn’t that wrong.

He smiled and took my hand to lead me through the dark. “You didn’t think your little steam vent was the only one, did you? There is a massive geothermal vent at the heart of the mountain that powers the generators; big enough to run them for thousands of years.”

We skirted the edge of a central chamber and I faltered at the strangest sight. A huge stylized head had been carved out of the rock and painted gold. Daniel made a disgusted noise when he noticed the focus of my attention, “don’t get me started on that. One of the investor’s kids has a fascination with _The Hobbit_ and called their dad the ‘King Under the Mountain’, and the next thing we know…” He waved his hand at the monstrosity and continued to lead me through the room. “We could have saved more people with the time and money spent on it.” 

If I had to find my own way back out of the mountain, I don’t know that I could, the place was that much of a maze. The corridors twisted and turned, rose and fell; I had no idea where we were relative to where we entered. It didn’t help that lighting was minimal, casting everything into deep shifting shadows.

“Come on, down this way. We need to hurry and get you settled in.”

We entered a round chamber; fancy tanning beds arranged in a fan, glowing with a pale white light, steam puffed from the ends of each in rhythmic little jets. Daniel hurried forward without me and pressed buttons on a terminal in the center of the room. Beyond it, an empty pod with an open lid started to pulse with the same white light.

He turned back and waved me over from where I still stood at the door. “Strip. Everything off then lie down in the pod.”

“What is this?”

“They’re stasis pods.”

“Stasis—whose pod is this?” It wasn’t mine; I wasn’t lucky enough, valuable or important enough, to have been allotted a spot. I stepped on the back of one shoe and pulled my foot from it, then repeated the process with the other. The stone floor beneath my bared feet was cooler than I had expected.

“Mine.”

“Yours? You can’t do this. Where are you going to go?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’ll get passed off as a clerical error and I’ll be reassigned elsewhere.” He turned away to fiddle with some valves at the foot of the pod. “I’m sorry that I can’t do this properly.” He picked up my discarded jeans and folded them neatly on top of my runners and did the same with my hoodie.

“What do you mean?”

“Normally the passenger is sedated first, but we don’t have time. I have to get the cycle started before they discover us.”

“Sedated? What’s going to happen?” The pod seemed far more sinister suddenly and I stepped away, clutching my shirt to my chest.

“The pod is going to fill with a suspension matrix; it’s going to put you to sleep. No, that’s not a euphemism, you really are going to sleep.” He gently grasped my shoulders and led me back to sit on the pod’s bed.

“For how long?” I was beginning to think that I should take my chances outside.

“About a hundred years. Don’t worry,” he quickly reassured, prodding me to lift my legs into the pod bed, “you won’t age or be aware of the time. I’ll be here when you wake up.” We froze at the sound of footsteps. “Quickly. They won’t be able to stop the cycle once its begun.” He pushed on my shoulder until I lay down. “Stay calm, okay?” I nodded stiffly; I was not feeling calm at all. “Love you, Issie.”

The lid closed before I could reply. The seals around the edges hissed like a vacuum being drawn but there was still air to breathe. It was pitched black inside; I couldn’t see my fingers in front of my face, I had enough room to extend my elbows out at my sides, but not enough to space to bend my knees to put my feet on the bed. Good thing I wasn’t claustrophobic, although I suddenly began to feel that way when the water, matrix—whatever it was—started to gush into the pod with me.

Suddenly I understood why they would want the person within to be sedated beforehand.

I could hear the muffled sound of voices raised in anger over the rush of the liquid pouring in. It was up past my ears and over my face in seconds, I awkwardly pushed myself up onto my elbows to keep my head above the rising level to try to hear what was going on outside the pod. I could hear orders barked out, then several rapid pops. Gunfire, I realized belatedly, but Daniel didn’t have a gun. Something hit the pod with a thud, and I knew then what was happening outside.

I pushed myself up again, only to slip and flail when something brushed past my bare leg and tore my attention away from what was going on outside. There was something inside the pod with me. The horror of being buried alive with something that would consume me forever had me firmly in its grip. I scrabbled at the metal above me for some purchase to keep my head above the rising fluid but slipped again and again. I choked and coughed on the liquid that splashed over my face with my struggle. Whatever was in there with me, undulated against the entire length of my body with the regularity of a heartbeat.

My lungs were burning, urging me to take another breath, and despite Daniel’s reassurance about the process, I was afraid I was going to drown. Desperate for air, my body made the decision for me; my chest spasmed with the instinctual need to inhale and the liquid poured into my lungs on my next breath. A strange calmness fell over me as my lungs no longer burned and struggled against the fluid that filled them. My limbs fell limp as I my body complied with the urge to relax.

I floated. Lulled by the rhythmic thrum, suspended in blindness of my own little world.

I floated. The terror of the last hour and uncertainty of my fate receded into the darkness.

I floated. The stress of the last few months faded like a shadow into the depths of night.

I floated. Everything I knew, everything I was, vanished into the unending stillness of sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Winterhold had been a glittering jewel of the north before the Great Collapse nearly eighty years ago; a city of wealth, culture, and pride in its illustrious College of magic that brought peoples from all over Skyrim, and even further abroad, to its doorstep. Merchants, inns, and hostelers had thrived, as had the farmers, hunters and trappers, all manner of trades and sundry businesses that supported them; everyone profited from the coin of travellers. Then the great storm of 4E 122 swept in from the Sea of Ghosts and half the city vanished into ruins at the foot of the cliffs, but the College mysteriously remained unscathed. Most residents weren’t even alive at the time of the disaster, and yet suspicions against the College and its inhabitants persisted. It often made for tense, uncomfortable interactions whenever college students or faculty visited the city, but at that moment, it was a blessing as the senior mage made his way through the town without being waylaid by trivial conversations.

A woman bundled in a long, hooded cloak wrapped around her mages’ robes stepped out of the shelter of the bridged archway to meet him. “Welcome back, Tolfdir. We expected you two days ago based on your last message.”

“Ah Faralda, my dear! It is good to see you. Lend an old man your support; the last leg of our journey has been very trying,” he said, leaning on the Altmer mage’s offered arm.

“The weather has been fine. What trouble did you encounter?” she asked, helping him along the high, windblown walkway that joined the college to the town.

“Our—discovery—woke up. Well, that a bit of a stretch for her current state. She had been completely inert until three days ago when she started to scream.” Faralda’s brows rose with concern. “It gave us all quite the fright as you can imagine. The carriage driver was so unnerved that he refused to bring us any further until Phinis’ apprentice, hmm…the Argonian—”

“Ilas-Tei.”

“Yes. He was able to calm her.”

Faralda snorted, “he can’t reliably calm a skeever.”

“He’s been getting a great deal of practice as of late. Ah, here we are. Savos, Mirabelle, greetings.” The Dunmeri Arch-mage and his Breton second nodded in reply. “Mirabelle, can I entreat you to send some of the staff to assist with bringing our guest up to the college. She is in no condition to move on her own and our driver has dropped us at the city gates. Yisra and Ilas-Tei remain with her.” He turned to the doors and paused, flustered. “Colette should be brought at once.”

“Come my old friend,” Savos said calmly hooking his arm through Tolfdir’s, “let us have a pot of tea while the others get our guest settled.” Neither one spoke while Savos tipped a heaping spoonful, then another, of dried leaves into a pot of water. With a flick of his hand, he heated the water to the perfect temperature and sat down to wait for the leaves to steep. “Tell me of this discovery.”

“Master Calcelmo is convinced of her origin. The technology was astounding. We found a few pieces of literature remarkably intact which he has taken to preserve and study; they are consistent with other writings that have been found from that race. He is hoping that if she survives...” He spooned a dollop of honey into his tea and stirred it long past the time needed to melt the honey as he looked pensively toward the tower that housed the college’s infirmary.

“What troubles you?”

The tea gave off a lovely warm earthy odour that had Tolfdir lifting the cup to his lips despite his apparent disinterest in consuming the tea. After a warming sip that chased away the lingering chill from the journey, he continued to sip at the tea, lost in thought. He sighed and placed the nearly empty cup back on the table. “I’m not sure we have done her a kindness in waking her from her slumber, accidental as it was. I fear that the world she will wake to is too far removed for her to adjust.”

Savos patted the other mage’s hand. “What was the alternative? As you say, waking her was accidental; you could not in good conscience leave her to die. The only thing we can do now to make amends is try to help her cope.” 

The doors had opened and shut repeatedly letting in brisk gusts of wind and snow to swirl across the stone floors outside of their little alcove as the staff went about their tasks. A group of students hurried by with books clutched to their chest. The young altmer in their group stood out with their greater height; they were just as animated as the other students with their enthusiastic discussion that faded to whispers as they were unceremoniously shushed by Urog the Librarian in the adjacent library.

Tolfdir watched the Altmer disappear with their fellow students, then turned back to Savos. “Has the new advisor arrived yet?”

“The new…advisor? Ah, yes. Ancano,” Savos’ face twisted with distaste, “arrived a few days after you left on your expedition. He says he is here as an advisor for the Aldmeri Dominion, but we all know that is just pretense. He is Thalmor, through and through.” He straightened his posture as a thought occurred to him and he regarded the much younger, relatively speaking, Nord colleague before him. “It would be best not to mention the origin, or identity, of our guest to Ancano. Until we know precisely why the Thalmor are interested in the College, we should keep that information to ourselves.”

Before Tolfdir could inquire further, a young Imperial woman, dressed in the dull green robes that marked her as an apprentice mage studying the Restoration magics, stuck her head into their alcove. “Oh!” she sounded startled to find them sitting there despite her obvious goal in locating them. “I was sent to fetch you—” her eyes flickered to Savos, “both of you, by Professor Marence.”

They entered the hall that housed the small infirmary to find it buzzing with activity with nervous apprentices darting in and out of rooms, their arms loaded with sheets and towels, bundles of herbs, and assortments of colourful potions and other glassware. All motion paused for a heartbeat as a scream bounced off the stone walls and resumed when a glass beaker smashed on the floor startling everyone back into action. With a questioning glance shared between the mages, the two men hurried toward the source of the scream.

“Douse those magelights! What did I tell you? Get those sodden furs and blankets out of my infirmary before all that snow melts and someone slips on the wet flags. No, not that potion, the blue one. How long does it take—”

Colette Marence, a diminutive woman even by Breton standards, more than made up for her lack of physicality by her unrivalled abilities with restoration magics. The golden glow of her healing spell faded under her hand and she gently lowered the arm, flung across the face of the woman lying in the bed, back down to her waist. Pushing back a matted string of hair from the woman’s face, she frowned at the tacky golden-coloured residue caked in the hair. It was unlike anything she had encountered before, and what she had seen in the short examination, the material appeared to be everywhere over the woman’s body.

She stood up, turning from the bed, “oh, there you are! Now would someone please tell me what has been done to this poor woman? Had you waited any longer in getting her to me, we’d be calling for Falion to pay us a visit!”

“What is her state?” Savos asked patiently, ignoring the mention of the former Conjuration master. This was not the time to dredge up bad blood over the departure of Phinis’ former mentor from the College for suspicions of necromancy practice.

“Well I’d say she was dying if not for my skill in Restoration. She is severely malnourished and dehydrated, her internal organs are shutting down, her heart is weak and beating irregularly, and based on her diminished body and extreme sensitivity to light, I’d say she had been confined in the dark for ages.” As she spoke, her voice shifted from a tone of professional detachment to indignant fury. She balled up her fists on her hips and demanded of the two senior mages, “who has done this to her?”

“Perhaps it would be best if we could speak privately?” Mirabelle suggested.

“Yes, that would be best. If you would dismiss your apprentices, Colette.” Savos noted the two apprentices that had accompanied Tolfdir standing in the corner of the room. “You two may stay. What we have to discuss is relevant to you as well.”

She narrowed her eyes at Savos before sighing, “very well. Everyone out. Apprentice Vauna—” The young Imperial woman who had fetched the mages perked up at her name. “Please visit the apothecary and request a strong restoration potion for my patient, then visit the cook and have them start a bone broth.”

“Yes, professor,” she said as she and the others left the room.

“Tolfdir,” Savos said, “would you mind casting a ward so no one will overhear us?” The blue ward shimmered in Tolfdir’s hands and rapidly expanded outward to enclose the room. With a nod from the mage, he continued, “what is said in this room, doesn’t leave this room. In particular, it does not get repeated to the new advisor, Ancano.”

“Ancano?” Colette glanced at the motionless woman in the bed. “What does he have to do with my patient?”

“We’ll get to that. Tolfdir, if you would.”

“We found the woman deep inside of a Dwemer ruin—”

“Someone left her there? The poor thing.”

“Well, yes, but we located her in a previously unknown area of the ruin. She was within one of the tombs—”

Colette gasped. “Someone buried her alive?”

Tolfdir held his hands up to stop her. “Please, let me finish. She wasn’t buried so much as preserved in some sort of sleeping state.” The lines on Colette’s forehead deepened with her frown of confusion. “We believe she is Dwemer. Calcelmo hypothesized that perhaps the Dwemer knew what was happening to them and tried to preserve lives beyond whatever ultimately destroyed their race and culture. We found several vessels like hers, but none were intact. She is the last of her kind.”

“Hmm, that would explain the extreme sensitivity to light,” she commented aloud, mostly for her own benefit.

“Is that why she screams?” Ilas-Tei asked, looking nervously at the silent body on the bed.

“That’s one reason. It’s not an adaptation like the Falmer but centuries—”

“Millennia,” Savos corrected.

“Millennia in the dark, light would be physically painful. It will take time, but she should adjust.”

“What about that word she says?”

Everyone looked sharply at Ilas-Tei who cringed at becoming the focus of attention of so many august persons. “What word?” Tolfdir asked curiously.

“When she calmed, she muttered a word over and again before falling silent. It sounds like ‘dah-nyell’” Ilas-Tei shrugged, “I don’t know what that means.”

“It could be nearly anything. No one knows what the Dwemer language sounds like, although it is not out of the realm of possibility that any of our own are derivatives of it.”

“All right, but how exactly does any of this involve Ancano?” Mirabelle spoke up.

“Ancano is Thalmor.” Savos paused to let that information sink in. Anyone living in Skyrim, not living under a rock, was familiar with the dark robes of the Aldemeri justiciars and had heard stories about citizens disappearing on charges of Talos worship or other purported infractions against the Dominion’s interests. “The Thalmor have a long memory and are unlikely to behave charitably toward a surviving member of the race that built the Numidium.”

Yisra frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“With the current rumblings of a civil war on the horizon between the Empire and the Stormcloak faction, the Thalmor would not react well to someone that could conceivably provide a weapon of that magnitude into the hands of either side of the conflict and significantly shift the balance of power. It’s in the Dominion’s best interest that Skyrim remains unsettled.”

“I didn’t think you were interested in politics?” Tolfdir asked.

“The politics of Skyrim is of no interest to the College,” Savos grumbled, dismissing the comment with a flick of his hand, “but I will not hand an innocent over to the tender mercies of the Thalmor, nor that particular s’wit.”

Tolfdir blinked in surprise at the Arch-Mage’s venom.

“So we keep the story as close to the truth as possible,” Mirabelle said. “The woman was found injured and unconscious, an abandoned hostage at a bandit camp within the ruins, where she was subsequently found by the expedition. We’ll need to relay this cover story to Phinis and the other apprentices that were at the site when they return.”

Tolfdir nodded. “They should be here within the week.”

“What about all that gold stuff on her? How do we explain that?” Yisra asked.

Colette pursed her lips. “I think that will come off. If it doesn’t…”

“Could we explain it as an illusion spell gone wrong?” Ilas-Tei offered tentatively.

Tolfdir smiled at the apprentice. “Very good Ilas-Tei.” He laughed. “Very good, indeed.”

“Well, if that is settled,” Savos commented, “now all that remains is to wait for our guest to wake up.”

“I don’t think we have long to wait,” Yisra pointed to the bed.

They turned as one and looked toward the bed and found a pair of green eyes, squinting against the glare of the single magelight, looking back at them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if this chapter is a bit rough around the edges. I wanted to get something out and provide a bit of distraction for everyone that might be struggling with the isolation required these days. Take care of yourselves and stay safe! 🤍🤍🤍
> 
> Just a note, I have intentionally not included translations because I wanted to emphasize Isana's experience.

I dreamt about fishing. Only I wasn’t the one doing the fishing, nor was I the fish. I was the worm, pinned and wriggling on the hook, bobbing up from the drowning depths into the blinding light, only to slip into the darkness again. I didn’t know which one to go toward. The light came with searing pain behind my eyes and a cold so harsh it made my skin and lungs ache. The darkness was familiar, comforting in its way, even if it was home to invisible horrors that wrapped me in their arms and dragged me under.

Eventually, both the cold lessened and the light muted, and I worked myself free from the hook to drift to the surface. I could hear voices but couldn’t make sense of the words, all harsh consonants and slippery vowels in unfamiliar combinations. Cracking my eyes open, the voices took shape; amorphous blobs slowly formed into bodies of men and women.

People.

I closed my eyes. I must be dreaming but the people were still there when my eyes opened again. A woman’s voice spoke up making all the bodies turn toward me; all but one left the room after that. I blinked. Was that a lizard’s tail?

An older woman, blond-fading-to-grey hair pulled back into braids at each temple, came into focus, hovering over me with a kind smile on her face. I didn’t understand the string of words she said, but she tapped her chest and repeated one: Colette. Some things stayed the same.

She touched her fingers to my chest and said “Dah-nyell?” Her pale brows rising to emphasize her question.

I turned my head from her but immediately needed to close my eyes against the sickening sway of vertigo from my movement. I felt drunk, like the world was spinning to fast around me. Fisting my hands into the bed covers and breathing slowly through my nose helped to calm the swimming sensation in my head but nothing could stop the hot tears spilled onto my cheeks. Had I been saying Daniel’s name in my sleep? I carefully reopened my eyes and after a moment of shifting, the room stayed where it should.

“Dah-nyell?” she repeated.

“No.” My voice came out as a barely audible croak. Moving my arm felt like dragging it through thick mud and was nearly more effort than I could manage, but I finally rested my fingers on my chest where hers had touched. “Isana.”

“Isana.” She patted her hand on my shoulder and stepped away from the bed. My eyes followed as she puttered around the small room briefly before returning to the bed with a metal cup and pitcher. The condensation beading on the outside had me licked my lips in anticipation. I hadn’t realized how thirsty I truly was until that moment. My head rolled on my neck, tugged back by the weight of my hair, when she propped me up to drink. She frowned and adjusted her grip to cradle the back of my head as she held the cup to my lips.

The water could have been the worst brackish water in existence, but I wouldn’t have cared in the slightest how strong was my thirst. It was sweet and cool and the best thing I had tasted in my life. Colette frustrated me by slowly trickling the water into my mouth, pausing frequently before resuming. My frustration must have shown on my face as she chuckled.

“Drekktu vatner heid.” Colette placed the empty cup on the side table and lowered me back to the bed.

If I ignored her accent, “drekktu” sounded like “drink”, and “vatner” to “water”. I assumed based on her actions that “heid” was “slowly” or “carefully”. A little itch in the back of my brain had me rolling the words around; they seemed Germanic—or maybe one of the Scandinavian languages—in sound, something vaguely familiar as I tried to recall my _Introduction to German_ class from high school. What I wouldn’t give for a good ol’ translation app on a phone or even a fictitious Babel Fish to cram in my ear.

What bothered me more was why the people waking us up weren’t using English. International travel became impossible in the final weeks, so how was there an entire group of people here that didn’t speak the local language? I suppose it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that they were relocated beforehand as a recovery team per se, or technology was restored enough after the disaster to enable travel again. There were too many questions that I had no way of getting answers to, but if Daniel was alive—my mind shied away from the memory—I could still hear the pops of gunfire and the thump against my pod. My best friend was gone, wasn’t he? The little, eternally optimistic voice in the back of my head kept prodding at me to stay hopeful.

I followed her with my eyes as she moved about the room. “Où est Daniel?” No wait, that was French.

She smiled indulgently and tapped her sternum, “Colette,” then mine, “Isana.”

I had several surprises over the next few days, the first being the existence of magic. Not the sleight of hand, “pull knotted hankies out of your sleeve” variety of magic, but real magic. At first, I thought that Colette was using some sort of motion detection to turn on lights that were out of my still adjusting sight. That was until her hand started glowing with light when she came to examine me.

After satisfying my thirst on that first day awake, I quickly succumbed again to sleep. I would have thought that after sleeping for a hundred years, I’d have had enough of sleep. I certainly didn’t think that drinking a cup of water would have been so taxing. I had just woken up when Colette returned and said something before motioning for another light to come on. The room was still dim, even so the additional light made my eyes water. She sat on the edge of the bed and checked my forehead and cheeks for sign of fever; satisfied, she hovered her hand over my chest. That was when her hand started to glow. I’ll fully admit that I jumped, at least to the best of my ability from my slightly propped up position on my back.

She pursed her lips together and let the glow vanish. I wasn’t sure if she was offended by my reaction or simply displeased that I had moved during her examination.

I tapped her hand, “do it again.” I laughed much like a child and flipped her hand over, poking at her palm as the golden glow swirled around her hand. Apparently, that was as much an unexpected response to her as her magic had been to me as she had the most bemused expression on her face.

Magic. I wondered if it was a side effect or mutation resulting from the ELE; the experts did say that the ionization of the atmosphere could have long term consequences on the people exposed, although they had predicted exposure to be ultimately fatal. Daniel had told me that the stasis program had been designed to protect people from those effects, so I had to wonder if the disaster wasn’t, in fact, an extinction level event as predicted. Would that make Colette a child or grandchild of someone that made it through unprotected? Or, the pods didn’t protect as planned… in which case, did I have magic too?

My thoughts on the matter were set aside as Colette helped me sit up for the first time. The weight of my matted hair was a painful nuisance, but it was completely secondary to the nauseating vertigo. I swallowed hard against the urge to throw up. My breaths started to come in shallow gasps, and I could feel my heart pounding against my ribs like a wild bird caught in a cage.

Now was not a good time to have an anxiety attack!

The room swirled around in sickening streaks of light and dark rushing at me like sitting in the heart of a snow squall with the snow whipping past the headlights of a fast car skidding out of control. I whimpered in distress and everything faded to black.

When I came to, a very concerned Colette swum into view, her hand on my chin as she dripped a sweetly, astringent syrupy mixture onto my tongue. The flavour seemed oddly familiar in a way that did nothing to reassure me from my previous panic attack.

“Hjarta þitt er veikt.”

After a few more drops of the syrup on my tongue, her hand glowed again over my chest. Already I could read the slight tension around her mouth that whatever she was able to determine with her magic wasn’t to her complete liking, but evidently it wasn’t bad enough to stop her from wrapping her arm around my shoulders and slowly bring me back up to a seated position. She jammed a bunch of pillows behind me to keep me propped up and pulled the rope of hair over my shoulder. When I didn’t pass out like the previous attempt, she handed me a cup of water to drink for myself. It was mortifying how weak I was; I needed both hands to keep the cup still and not spill it over myself.

I watched Colette move about the room, directing a pair of young women to haul a large wooden tub into the room and then bucket after bucket of water.

“Baða sig,” she said. I nodded eagerly. I might not understand her words, but her gestures indicated washing her arms and hair were clear enough; a bath sounded divine as the gold stuff all over my skin was making me itch. 

Despite how nice it felt to be clean and tucked back into bed in a soft, warm robe, bathing had been a difficult process as I encountered my second, less pleasant surprise. I barely had the strength to move one foot in front of the other, never mind standing on my own two feet to cover the short distance from the bed to the bath. Colette’s assistants were very careful to help me to the tub and averted their eyes when the tunic was pulled off for bathing. I admit I burst into tears to see my condition. It was horrifying to see that I had become little more than bones and connective tissue wrapped in a gold-stained layer of skin. I don’t think it would have been much of an exaggeration to say that I could have been mistaken for some prehistoric bog mummy come to life. All the muscle I had from the physical labour of my former profession was gone.

I understood then Colette’s concern with my chest; if my other muscles had wasted away as badly as they had, then it stood to reason that my heart was in a similar condition. The fluttering sensation and shortness of breath, along with the fainting earlier wasn’t simply a panic attack; my heart struggled to keep the blood flowing to my brain. With that realization and my previous life as a horticulturist, which included a perhaps morbid fascination of the Poison Garden at Alnwick Castle that I had hoped to one day visit, I suspected the syrupy mixture she was giving me was some sort of nightshade tincture mixed to help my heart. I just hoped that they knew what they were doing with it.

The next surprise came a few days later. After managing to feed myself some soup that smelled like it had a good slug of gin added to it—small grey-green berries floated to the surface and popped between my teeth with a sharp, herbaceous astringency that was nearly overwhelming in its flavour—I had my first visitor other than Colette or one of her assistants. The woman that seemed vaguely familiar, came in for a visit. I assumed that perhaps I had met her in the camp before Daniel had taken me into the facility, but after introducing herself as Yisra, she mimed that I had been sleeping which I took to mean that she was here when I woke and not before. She was very cheerful and energetic, and appeared to like my new chin-length hair style I had convinced Colette and the girls to do when they couldn’t work the matted braid loose from the matrix gluing it all together. 

She chatted briskly with no apparent need that I participate, tossing a small fireball back and forth between her fingers. She finally paused when she noticed my attention was no longer on her but the person that had walked into the room behind her.

It was a huge lizard, clothed and walking on it’s hindlegs just like a person. It was Godzilla’s Mini-Me.

Yisra slapped her hand on her thigh with a loud crack startling me and laughed. “Meeneemee!”

Oh, I must have spoken that aloud.

The lizard hissed at her, baring sharp teeth with its—his—her(?) displeasure, which just made Yisra laugh even more.


	5. Chapter 5

The lizard in question, I learned through our rudimentary gesturing, was named Ilas-Tei. He was something called an Argonian. I assumed that was his species rather than occupation or some other designation. He and Yisra came to visit quite frequently once I was able to stay awake for longer than a few minutes, and they seemed to enjoy teaching me words and phrases, laughing at my pronunciation as I tripped over the unfamiliar combinations of consonants and vowels.

Two others—twin brothers by the names of Borvir and Rundi—joined us on an almost daily basis. Their contributions to the language lessons seemed to resolve around mjöður, which from Borvir’s comical pantomime of bees, I came to understand was made of honey. It was mead. Due to my current condition, I was entirely unprepared with how deceptively intoxicating the beverage was and became violently ill the first time I partook of the drink. I didn’t understand the words, but Colette’s disapproval was patently clear as she very loudly scolded my visitors. Not that it deterred them in any way from offering me more mjöður, but I relearned my own limits. I didn’t used to be such a lightweight.

While the language lessons were a great source of entertainment for my self-appointed teachers, I had a more pressing need to learn to communicate with them. It seemed that no one—in my limited visitors list—spoke any language that I had a passing familiarity with. A small voice was screaming in the back of my mind, growing louder with each passing day; how could so much have changed in just a hundred years? My inability to ask the questions I wanted, to get the answers I so desperately needed, was a great source of frustration and did nothing to quell the sense of dread that grew in the pit of my stomach.

I finally had the opportunity to see more of my surroundings. After a few days of successfully staying awake for hours at a time without passing out upon sitting up, and graduating to thicker soups, Colette deemed it time for me to start moving around to rebuild muscle mass and stamina. Magic, apparently, could only do so much. I was getting better at reading her expressions and interpreting her tone, if not her words, and I could sense that there was some underlying worry. Nevertheless, it wasn’t enough to deter her recommendations and her apprentices were all too happy to link their arms through mine to support me for laps around what was the lowest floor of the building.

The room I recovered in was one of two larger rooms on the floor holding several beds for the injured or sick. I was the only occupant in my room, but I could see as we did laps around the central well—it looked like a well of light—that the other room had one or two occupants. I wondered briefly why we hadn’t all been in the same room. It certainly would have been more convenient, but as my eyes watered painfully at the light, I realized that my room had been and still was much darker than the rest. Several small rooms were present that I determined were for those people that were responsible for monitoring anyone in the care of the healers. There were also rooms filled with glassware, stacks and stacks of books, and a small selection of plants that called to the green part of my soul. How I missed my plants.

The building was all heavy stone with stone flag floors on the ground level and wooden floors on the upper levels; the doors were rustically finished wood plank doors held together and mounted on wrought-iron fittings. It was all very eclectic for an educational institute. And still the little voice in the back of my head niggled at me; why had no one bothered to try to restore our technology? Did the cataclysmic event knock us back to the middle ages as the experts predicted?

I tried not to dwell on these questions lest I drive myself mad chasing for answers I just didn’t have. Fortunately, I had readily available distractions.

“Colette sagðist you gengið out. Take the skikkjuna,” Yisra said entering my room and handing me a cloak late one afternoon. I was curious as to where she was taking me, but eager to be out of doors, I wrapped the cloak over my shoulders. I picked up my walking stick and stood up to join her, pausing for a moment as the faint wave of dizziness passed. Yisra said nothing but gave a slight nod while she waited for me to take my first step.

Colette’s concern had been realized; my heart remained weak and I frequently had bouts of dizziness, hence the acquisition of the walking stick that was presented to me after my first solo walk resulted in a fall.

Yisra didn’t hover around me, unlike Colette’s apprentices, as I walked beside her to wherever it was that she wanted to take me. I knew that she was keeping a close eye on me to intervene if I was in danger of falling, but her feint lack of attention was sweeter to me than I knew the words to express. I didn’t feel like a toddler taking their first steps with overprotective parents fussing around in case I ran into the furniture.

She pushed open the heavy wooden doors. Cold air rushed in taking my breath away as quickly as my eyes watered at the blinding light beyond those same doors. The air was fresh and sharp with the scent of snow and a faint tang of salt. I bowed my head and shielded my eyes with my free hand as I blinked repeatedly to adjust to the light. Slowly, the huge circular courtyard came into focus; its tall walls—nearly three stories high—loomed over us. Despite the large voids cut into the walls to provide light, the air was calm, albeit cool, even though I could hear the wind blowing beyond the walls.

Three towers evenly punctuated the perimeter, the largest to my left and before its ornate doors on a pedestal in the center of the courtyard was a carved stone statue on someone wearing long robes—I assumed that they were the founder or some other person of import to the college.

All of this I ignored in favour of the interested variety of plants that grew in wild abundance among the grey-green evergreens. There were all sorts of flowering perennials, their leaves just set and flowering buds beginning. There was a plant resembling wild raspberry canes, its fruit lingered on the canes like rosehips. Yisra plucked several of the slightly wizened fruits from the plant and handed me a few. She popped one in her own mouth. “Eat.” Despite their slightly shrivelled state, juice burst on my tongue as I bit into the fruit; they tasted like a sweet cranberry. She echoed my smile with her own.

Ilas-Tei, Borvir, and Rundi sighted and called us over to a spot set out with a circle of stone benches. I offered a few of the fruits to the others; Ilas-Tei made face I assume was of disgust but the other two gladly accepted.

“I tell Isana vaxa villtar all over norður,” Yisra said.

“Gagnlegt when you villist in snjóstormur. Is that not right, brother?”

Borvir scowled as the others laughed. An inside joke, I supposed.

They had brought furs and blankets to drape over the benches for comfort and warmth. Baskets of food; warm bread wrapped in cloth, cheeses, smoked meats, and several bottles of mead that the brothers immediately gravitated to unsurprisingly. They chatted, sometimes debated quite furiously, but always made the effort to include me in their conversations. Eventually though I allowed myself to retreat from the conversation to watch the darkening sky.

We had only begun eating as the colour of the sky had changed into the warm colours of evening. Another clue that I had been moved further to the north than I had been when I went to sleep was how early it grew dark here. As the darkness deepened, the skies were illuminated by the most wonderous curtain of colour: greens, blues, and purples all shifting from the palest leaf green to the deepest indigo violet. The moon rose above the walls, huge and gleaming; with the lack of pollution from before—both light and air—I could easily see the larger craters on the face. I watched the moon and the dancing aurora silently.

I sighed and realized that for the first time in weeks, I felt content even despite the unanswered questions I still had.

“Isana?”

Ilas-Tei’s voice jerked me out of my reverie. I lazily turned my head in his direction and over his shoulder I saw the most horrifying sight.

There were two moons.

Beside me, Rundi yelped as I shrieked, “there are two moons! How the fuck are there two moons?”

I could feel the fluttery sensation in my chest as I gasped between my panicked words. Someone pried open my hand and from the corner of my eye I could see Rundi stagger away, hunched over, as Ilas-Tei shifted to obscure my view. The scales of his palm surprisingly warm against my cheek as the green glow of his spell filled my sight and I gradually calmed down.

In my panic, I had forgotten the astronomers, who tracked the immense rogue comet that caused the massive solar flare that ionized the atmosphere and wiped out our technology, had predicted three possible outcomes. The first, and most likely scenario, was the comet would hit the earth wiping out all life à la the extinction of the dinosaurs. The second scenario was the very slight possibility of the comet catching orbit around the planet instead. It was so slight that they didn’t discuss it further except to add that the second moon would cause devastating geologic shifts that would be as catastrophic for life as much as a collision. The third, highly unlikely—but most hopeful—possibility had been the comet deflected away from its course and life would continue, albeit we’d still have to rebuild our technological infrastructures.

Obviously the second had come to pass but that left a rather large question. Based on the predictions of earthquakes, volcanos, and other destruction, there was no way that everything had been rebuilt within that hundred years. My friends were also far too nonchalant for this to have occurred within their parents’ or grandparents’ lifetimes. It begged the question: how long had I really been asleep?

“Isana? Look at me.”

I blinked slowly and looked toward the familiar face of Colette. Beside her was an elderly man wearing a worried expression that mirrored the healer’s own. She gathered my hands in her own and chafed them.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Two…” I said. I stopped and tried again in their language. “Two moons. Not right. How long asleep?” It didn’t make me feel any better that Colette and my little group of friends all shot worried looks to the man.

“I think, elskan mín,” he said, “we must speak.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is staying safe under the difficult conditions these days. I hope that Isana's story provides a bit of distraction to everyone that needs it. 💕


	6. Chapter 6

At Colette’s bidding, Tolfdir took my arm in his and escorted me back to my room in the apprentices’ tower. I sat on the edge of the bed, still a bit stunned at what I had seen in the night’s sky, as Colette fussed and coaxed me to take a couple drops of the medicine under my tongue. Gradually my heart stopped its panicked fluttering; even if my mind couldn’t slow its racing, at least my heart wasn’t exacerbating the problem. With a final admonishment not to upset me unnecessarily, she reluctantly stepped out of the room to give us some privacy for our needed conversation.

“How are you, elskan mín?”

“I’m fine…” I snorted a shaky laugh. “Who am I kidding? I’m far from fine. There’s another moon in the sky. People do magic. No one speaks my language. There are lizard people and god know what else. I don’t know where I am or where I fit anymore. I don’t even know how long I’ve been stuck in that damned pod!”

His brows rose and rose as my tirade became more and more shrill. I pressed my fist into my chest and took a deep breath, attempting to calm the fluttering sensation within. Colette had only just got me stabilized; I didn’t need to undo her work.

“I’m sorry.” I gave a helpless shrug. “I’m usually very calm about things, but…” I trailed off with another shrug as he took my free hand in his. My emotions felt like they were bouncing all over the place and I didn’t know if I wanted to laugh or rage or cry; I was on the edge of hysteria and gripped his hand desperately like it was a lifeline tossed to the drowning.

“I understand, elskan mín. Shall I fetch Colette?” I shook my head and he patted my hand like a grandfather would comfort a frightened child. “Are you able to speak of what upset you?”

“Two moons. There was only one when I went to sleep.”

“Only one?”

I nodded. “It’s what ended things.”

“Why that’s undraverður! We always thought a conflict or your tækni—” He stopped abruptly as he realized what he had said. “I’m sorry, elskan mín. That was thoughtless of me. This must be very confusing for you.”

I shrugged yet again. “You could say that. Could you answer some questions for me?”

“To the best of my ability.”

“Are there—” I was afraid to ask the question, afraid of the answer I already suspected. “Are there any others like me? Did you find anyone else?”

He shook his head and gave me a sympathetic look as he answered carefully, “no. We have found none like you. You are last of Dwemer.”

I frowned over the word he called me. Dwemer. Was that what they called humans? He looked as human as me. “Are you not the same as me?”

He looked honestly astonished at my question. “I am Nord. Race of man but not same as Dwemer. Your race…” He gave me a small apologetic smile as to soften the blow. “Is no longer.”

I understood then. I was the evolutionary equivalent of a Neanderthal. The end of the line, in more ways than one.

“How… how long was I sleeping?”

He hesitated, “sjö þúsund”

I didn’t understand the words or rather, didn’t want to; they couldn’t possibly be what I thought. After sorting out how to communicate the math, he informed me that I had been sleeping not a hundred years, but for seven thousand. Seven thousand years. Seventy times longer than what Daniel had said was to be the timeframe. I had been forgotten, lost for seven— _fucking_ —thousand years. My mind refused to move beyond this point. I was older than the pyramids of Egypt had been, older than the Neolithic monument of Newgrange had been, at the time my world came to an end.

A hot coal of anger smoldering in my chest bursting to life as I demanded my next question of him. “Why! Why did you wake me?”

He shrank upon himself under my glare. “It was slys, villa. We didn’t intend—”

I recoiled from him, stunned. An accident. I shouldn’t have been awake at all. I pulled my hand from him and shuffled over to the other side of the bed to lie down facing the wall. I blinked furiously at the burn of sudden tears. “I wish to be alone now.” I shrugged away from his tentative touch on my shoulder, not caring if I offended him. “Please, leave me alone.”

“As you say, elskan mín. I’ll send Colette.”

Colette came to see me after he left but I ignored her questions and flinched away from the magic glow of her hand. She, too, finally left me alone.

I’m not ashamed to admit I moped for days in my bed after Tolfdir answered my questions. In truth, I was feeling very sorry for myself; I grieved for my lost world, everyone and everything I knew. I was angry at Daniel for doing this to me, for not surviving with me, and I was terrified about what future I had in a world I had no place in.

That uncertainty of the unknown paralyzed me. I couldn’t expect the goodwill of my rescuers to extend for the rest of my life. I knew they’d have more questions for me. I recognized that hunger for knowledge in Tolfdir’s eyes, had seen it often in Daniel’s, but what then? What would happen to me when I, someone who had lived a plainly ordinary life, couldn’t give them what answers they sought? Would they cast me out into the world, such as it was, to fend for myself? Could I survive in this world? Take care of the necessities of acquiring food and shelter, or would I have to resort to begging or stealing? How long did it take for someone to starve to death or die of exposure? I resented that, once again, these thoughts consumed my mind.

My daily visitors continued to come and spend time with me, chatting and carrying on even if I didn’t acknowledge their presence or participate in the conversations. Colette tried to get me out of bed; coaxing me with encouragement some days, scolding on others when the lighter approach didn’t get results. Tolfdir also stopped by twice and as much as I might have softened toward his grandfatherly demeanour, I held onto my anger. It was the one thing that was left in my life that I could control, unhealthy as it might be.

It was into the fifth day of my self-imposed bed rest and I was beginning to get seriously bored. Had I sulked like this before, Daniel and Michael would have come and climbed into the bed with me and generally made a nuisance of themselves until I finally gave up and laughed at their antics. But both were long dead, and it was Rundi who came with an offering that did more to cheer me up than anything else. It was only his voice that identified him, turned as I was toward the wall. He mumbled some platitudes about them missing my company and wanting me to join them to go down to town for some mead. Behind me I could hear water being poured and then a thunk as the pitcher was placed on the table beside the bed. When I didn’t respond, he said that he hoped I’d feel better soon and left.

It wasn’t long before a sweet spicy odour caught my attention. Thinking to find food, I rolled over to find a haphazard bouquet of flowers staring back at me. The flowers were the most extraordinary shade of orange-gold that they didn’t look real. Reddish variegation liberally decorated the outer petals, offsetting the paler yellow ones at the center. I plucked one of the flowers from the pitcher and rubbed the waxy petals between my fingers releasing a sharp peppery scent from the bruised flesh. They appeared to be from the orchid family but not quite. Curiosity and my innate love of flowers drove me from the bed more readily than any other inducement as I sought out the source of the blooms, if not the person that brought them.

The tower was quiet, with the students and apprentices away for whatever occupied their time in the evening. I heard Colette speaking with someone but kept to the shadows as I worked my way to the door as quietly as possible, cursing every time my cane tapped on the floor. I wasn’t trying to avoid anyone and yet at the same time, I very much didn’t want company. I just wanted to find the source of the flowers. I slipped out the door and shivered at the blast of cold air that hit me. I cursed at myself for not grabbing the cloak from the peg by my door before leaving, but I had no intention of going back.

Glancing around, I caught sight of the two moons rising above the walls and shuddered. It was a ridiculous reaction to be afraid of the night sky, like a hysterical chicken running around declaring the sky was falling, but it felt so very wrong. I gave my head a shake; it was completely normal to everyone else and I had to get over my visceral dread at how wrong it felt lest they decide I was insane and lock me up somewhere. It would probably be some dark, dank, rat infested stone cell some place people gladly forgot about.

I averted my eyes from above and searched the darkening grounds for the flowers. The little mage lights bobbed at intervals around the courtyard illuminating the path and seats set around the perimeter but didn’t reveal the source of flowers. I noticed at the far side of the circle, behind a bunch of flowering trees, a building that looked decidedly like a conservatory made of stone and leaded glass. I made a beeline for it, certain that my destination was close at hand.

The interior of the building was mostly dark behind the glass but the heavy wooden door was decorated with ornately carved—hammered?—floral motif and the strange runic letters I had yet to learn. I pulled on the heavy door and was immediately hit with the old familiar scents of flowers, damp soil, chlorophyll, and the hint of rot from the mulch. The door closed behind me softly as I leaned against the door jamb with my eyes closed and took a deep breath feeling immediately at peace for the first time since waking up.

I raised my arm to shade my eyes, the flower still clutched in my hand, as a bright light bloomed on the other side of my eyelids. “Ah,” said an exasperated male voice, “so that’s what happened to the tunga drekans I was ready to harvest.”

“I’m sorry?” I blinked rapidly at the light. A very tall man with pale ochre skin and long straight hair of a similar hue stood before me wearing a faintly annoyed look on his face. I averted my eyes from the long, tapered ears that held back his hair. For some reason, I thought elves would have been shorter.

“The tunga drekans… The flower clutched in your hand. I was about to harvest them for the alchemist.”

“Oh…I…a friend…” I stopped abruptly, not wanting to throw Rundi under the bus, or whatever passed for mass transit in this place.

His eyes narrowed slightly, and he picked up a pair of wicked looking shears I hadn’t noticed earlier. “You must be the little hostage that Phinis’ little group found in those ruins.” He twirled the shears around his fingers; I pressed myself against the door and wondered how effective my cane was as weapon should I need it. “They’re very secretive about that. Too much so if you ask me.”

“I don’t… I mean, I…”

He turned slightly from me to a cluster of frilly white flowers, the shears making a soft snick as he gathered the blooms. “Curious accent you have. If you run across my… countryman… Ancano—tall severe looking fellow, not a handsome specimen like myself—I would recommend that you say as little as possible so not to rouse his suspicions.”

The shears continued their snick-snick as he moved to another cluster of flowers closer to my position. “Never trust anyone that doesn’t appreciate flowers.” I pressed myself up against the door in surprise as he suddenly whirled back around to me and brandished the little bouquet of flowers. 

“Tyerondorinildor Jaerorin, at your service,” he said while doing some sort of elaborate bow, the flowers waved and bobbed in his hand. I blinked in surprise, unsure of how to respond or how to keep all the syllables of his name in the correct order. The corner of his mouth curled up at my apparent dazed expression. “Quite so. I have no idea what my mother was thinking. You may call me Nildor.” He offered the flowers again which I took from him. “Come, let me introduce you to my little green friends. I suspect that they are, or will soon be, friends of yours also.”


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, energized with the prospect of doing something I loved, I was up and dressed before Colette arrived to try to cajole me out of bed. I stopped for a quick breakfast at the little alcove that was always stocked with breads, sticky buns, nuts and fruits for the apprentices and mages. I put together a little bundle of the nuts and dried fruit into a square of cloth to carry me through the day and tied it shut with a bit of string before stuffing it into the voluminous pocket of the cloak Yisra had given me. The students I passed as I walked through the courtyard paid me little mind, particularly those that pulled their own cloaks tight about themselves against the wind. Those that did not mind the cold—Nords, I’ve been led to believe—gave us all disparaging looks.

I opened the door to the conservatory and pushed my weight against it to close more quickly lest the cold air shock the plants, although as I did so, there was no obvious exchange of air that one would expect. Magic, I supposed, which at a college of magic, made perfect sense. The scent that greeted me was different than it had been the previous night; the night blooming plants giving way to those of the day. Bright blue and pink butterflies shivered as they warmed their wings in the pale morning light before they started their own daily activities fluttering from bloom to heavy bloom.

Of the welcoming elf I had met the previous evening, there was no sign despite his assurance he would be around to continue my tour in the daylight hours. I smiled to myself as I draped my cloak over a stool and picked up a small pail tucked under a workbench to start deadheading flowers; his enthusiasm for his charges was contagious and much on par with my own. Daniel had said my eyes were green because I was really a dryad and they were the only thing I couldn’t hide in my disguise as a human. I could feel my mood start to darken despite how pleasant the memory was and gave myself a shake. I knew I still had grieving to do and probably would for a long time, but I also needed to try to move forward.

I lost myself in tending the plants; the feel of the petals, leaves, and stems under my fingers was familiar and soothing, and I quickly fell into a rhythm that allowed my grief to slip into the background of my thoughts. All too soon the plants were attended to and I looked around for a place to dump out the little pail of detritus, assuming that there would be some sort of compost or method to dispose of the trimmings.

“What’s this?” I turned to find Nildor standing in the doorway, blinking muzzily at the light and his hands paused in their busy work of twisting his long hair—I hadn’t noticed how long it was the previous night—up into some sort of ornate knot. His sharply manicured brow rose ever more sharply as he looked around the conservatory. “How long have you been at this? It usually takes one of the lærlingar all day to tidy this.”

I gave a shrug looking around at the plants as I clutched the pail to my chest, “since dawn.”

“Dawn?” He squinted at the mid-morning light pouring in through the glass. “My lærlingar are lazy or you’re very skilvirkur.” I flashed him a little smile in answer even though I didn’t fully understand what he said. A faint frown flickered across his face and disappeared in a blink of an eye as I wobbled on my feet with a sudden wave of dizziness. “Did you sleep last night?”

“Some. I don’t seem to sleep very well lately.” It was true that my sleep pattern was all over the place, I slept at random intervals whenever the urge and fatigue took me. After sleeping artificially for nearly seven thousand years, my body had much to readjust. Colette said that would happen over time as I resumed my life, but I may never be completely as I was beforehand; I just had to be patient with myself.

He huffed, seemly dissatisfied with my answer. He carefully plucking the pail from my grasp so not to upset my already precarious balance and set it on a bench. “I like to start my day with a pot of tea. Join me, won’t you?” He offered his elbow with a flourish. I don’t know how much of it was just the way he was or if he simply didn’t wish to explain to Colette how I ended up in a heap on his floor.

I placed my hand on his arm and he immediately covered it with his own larger, and much warmer, hand. “Oh! Perhaps two pots of tea. And maybe some of those sweet buns that the Khajiiti like, but most assuredly not those dry, ashen things Savos eats.” He shuddered. “Is that your cloak?” Not waiting for an answer, he pulled it from the stool upsetting the little bundle of fruit and nuts from the pocket. The square of fabric burst open when it hit the floor sending the contents scattering over the stones. Nildor blinked several times in surprise then gave me an inquisitive look. “Do you usually hoard food like those rodents?”

My own brows rose in surprise; did he seriously just compare me to a rat?

“Oh. Oh no! I’ve offended you and rightly so.” He dropped my hand and started to pace before me. “My þjóð are so good at looking down and spotti anyone not Altmer, and we do athyglisverður job of lítilsháttar our own as well, if I do say so myself. And here I am, with all my pride—” his face twisted with a look of scorn, “at not being a typical example of my race, only to stumble on the first day with my new kunningi. Its no wonder my lærlingar take so long in doing their tasks; they do so simply to avoid having to deal with me!”

I had no idea how to respond to his tirade, particularly when I didn’t understand all that he said. It was clear that he was upset with himself. Did he expect me to scold or forgive him? Lost as to what to say, I remained quiet. He fell silent and stood before me, flushed with emotion which made his cheekbones stand out with burnished colour.

“Ah…” he hesitated cautiously gauging my mood, “perhaps we could start again?”

I nodded, hesitant myself in the face of his outburst. Finally finding my voice I added, “that might be best?”

As he had the previous night, he bowed toward me, “good morning Isana. Would you care to join me for a cup of tea to start the day?” When I agreed, he again he took my arm and carefully led me through to an area set to the back with work benches littered with potting paraphernalia, wooden boxes labelled with the symbols, various tools, and stacks of burlap sacks under the benches. Seedlings sat in tidy rows of containers. Plants overflowed pots set on the floor, shelves, and hanging from the ceiling. I felt immediately at home in the familiar trappings. To my surprise, tucked in the corner was an exceptionally fine pair of couches; ornate patterns of stylized flowers, twisting vines and leaves were carved into the glossy wood, thick cushions of what appeared to be silk brocade provided ample padding. They looked very expensive and wholly inappropriate for a space that came complete with soil, sap, and other debris.

“Please sit. Make yourself comfortable while I prepare our tea.” He immediately disappeared into a little alcove behind me, hidden by a great fern-like plant that swayed in an absent breeze.

I sat gingerly on the edge of one seat while I waited, listening to him muttering to himself as he clattered about with preparing our tea. Beside me, a small table was stacked to overflowing with books, scrolls, several quills and a pot of ink, and a small sculpture of a tree that was reminiscent of an Acacia bonzai but made entirely of metal. The craftsmanship was astounding. I could hear cups and plates being placed on a tray and realized that there was nowhere for Nildor to put a tray when he returned. I quickly located a dry wooden box under the table and carefully put the scrolls, quills and ink inside, then stacked the books and moved the sculpture to leave some space. One of the books caught my eye and I flipped through the pages looking at all the renderings of plants I had never seen before.

“Could you—oh!” Nildor startled me from my perusal of the book. “I was going to ask you to clear the table, but I see you have already done so. Skilvirkur, indeed.” He placed the tray and poured two cups of tea, noting the book set at my hip as he handed me my cup. “Did you get to the chapter on Summerset flora? It’s my favourite although I may be somewhat biased.”

“I was just looking at the sketches.”

His eyes narrowed as he studied me. He took a drink of his tea then declared, “you can’t read.”

“I can read,” I replied hotly. I was beginning to reconsider my opinion of him; everyone warned me that the Altmer were arrogant and I was beginning to wonder if they were, in fact, correct. “It’s just…” I stumbled over the reason, nearly making a misstep after Tolfdir had advised me not to share that they dug me up from an ancient Dwemer ruin. “Um, I’ve forgotten the letters.”

“I see.” He nodded slowly, clearly not buying my excuse. “On account of your ordeal…with the bandits.” Instead of answering, I dodged the question by burying my nose in my teacup momentarily becoming lost in the deliciously fragrant odour of the tea he had made us. After a few uncomfortable minutes of silence, he suddenly brightened. “I have a wonderful idea—I will teach you!”

I started to protest, “no, that’s all right. I’m sure you are quite busy enough…” I cast about for an excuse.

“Nonsense!” He flinched in surprise as his teacup knocked the saucer with more force than I think he intended with his enthusiasm. “I can teach you over our morning cup of tea. The lærlingar can take care of the simple chores you took care of this morning so we can spend some uninterrupted time.” He took in what must have been a very skeptical look on my face. “Do say yes! I am a very good kennari, I promise you.” 

I finally relented much to Nildor’s delight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is doing well and gets a bit of distraction from current world events with a bit of a fluffy chapter. Again, I haven't provided translations for Isana's POV intentionally. In the light of day, Nildor's and Isana's fletchling friendship have already hit a few bumps in the road!
> 
> You may or may not have noticed that I have bumped up the rating for this story to "M". I have the plot figured out and the rating increase will be applicable later—I'd rather give fair warning now than have readers get involved and have to nope out later. And who am I kidding, I don't know that I'm capable of writing a "T" rated fic (if you are at all familiar with my other fics, you will know _exactly_ what I mean). 😭
> 
> Comments, kudos, emojis, gifs are always welcomed. Want to chat about the story? I'm more than happy to do so! Stay safe!


	8. Chapter 8

My arrangement with Nildor received mixed reactions. Nildor, himself, was immensely pleased although I didn’t understand exactly why. It seemed to me that he would have enough to do with his legitimate students without teaching me to read but he quickly assured me that wasn’t the case.

Colette was happy that I was no longer confining myself to my bed and was up and about getting some fresh air and exercise. She mentioned in passing that she would speak with Mirabelle, the college administrator, about getting my own room assigned to me as an official student of the College. This conveniently freed up the infirmary since I was no longer, technically her patient, at least not on the daily basis.

Tolfdir informed that he was pleased I had taken an interest in learning their language and sharing of my knowledge, both personally and professionally. One of his colleagues, Calcelmo, wished to meet with me when I was strong enough to travel, to discuss what I knew of the “Dwemer”. He was also thrilled that I was putting my botanical skills to use; he hinted would be enough payment for my keep at the College. Whilst he relieved one concern I had, he introduced several new ones. Travelling in this world was a whole new worry for me to unpack for another day; however, the bigger one was again caution about sharing my origins. It confused me. He wanted me to freely share what I knew with this Calcelmo person, but refrain from sharing with others. He was rather vague about Nildor, himself, but was quite vehement about his association with this Ancano person, whom I had yet to meet, was not to be trusted. I wasn’t sure what to think of this. I did consider that the issue could have been a racial one rather than an issue of academic competitiveness, because, according to Nildor, even the Altmer didn’t like the Altmer.

I had only returned to my newly allotted space in the apprentice’s tower after my first official day as Nildor’s student when Yisra showed up. She flopped down onto the bed making the parchment tucked into my cloak crunch loudly. Pulling it out, she studied the contents with growing disbelief before dropping it onto the bed and wiping her fingers on her pants as if something had transferred to them from the dry parchment. “So its true! They can’t be trusted, you know?”

“Who? The instructors?”

“No. Them. The _Altmer_.” She rolled her eyes at my failure to respond appropriately. “They’re all Thalmor. Or Thalmor samúðarmenn.”

I still didn’t understand, but maybe it was what Tolfdir was alluding to when he warned me to watch my words. The only way to know for certain was to ask. “Are they really? Is Nildor a—what did you call it—Thalmor? Is Ancano?”

She hissed at me as if the walls had ears. Perhaps with magic, they did.

“I don’t about the goldenrod—think he’s chewed on one too many poisonous plants to know what’s going on—but the other? He is most definitely. You can tell from the robes he insists on wearing; all black and gold like some accursed lich.” She sighed in frustration when I again failed to respond correctly as she had expected and grabbed my cloak, throwing it over my shoulders before dragging me out the door. The parchment covered in Nildor’s tidy writing fluttered, unheeded, to the floor. “Come on, the others are waiting down at the Frozen Hearth. We need a less áberandi place to talk.”

If Yisra was worried about someone overhearing us talk about the Thalmor, she couldn’t have picked a better nor worse place to try to educate me. The Frozen Hearth was loud as any busy tavern would have been from my previous life experience, at least until getting drinks with friends became less of a priority over hoarding food for the coming disaster. Everyone vied to be heard over the clatter of mugs and plates, the crackling of the roaring fire at the center, the drone of conversations, shouts to the serving staff by the customers and owner alike. The bard played valiantly, loud enough to be heard over it all. In one corner, there was a local tough, deep into his cups despite the early hour of the evening, bellowing out challenges to a test of arms, specifically of the bared knuckles variety, to any that might glance his way.

I cringed slightly as Yisra whooped in reply to Borvir’s call over the din as we entered. It drew far too much attention for my liking judging from the sudden drop in volume of the room. I’ve never been shy, but with Tolfdir’s warning still echoing in the back of my mind, I ducked my head to avoid the gaze of the tavern occupants that paused their own conversations to see who was interrupting.

Ilas-Tei slid over on the bench making room for me while Rundi put some space between us. I supposed he was nervous that I’d grab him again if I got upset—Yisra could barely stop laughing long enough to tell me he limped for two days afterward. With my back comfortably against the wall and a mug of mead in hand, I quickly gazed about the room. The view was hazy from the smoke of the fire and multiple candelabra suspended over our heads, but it wasn’t difficult to spot the locals versus the students from the College. The locals huddled together casting looks that ranged from uneasy suspicion to downright hostility whereas the mages were much less reserved, almost cocky in their behavior. Perhaps it was the over-confidence that their abilities or number would protect them; I thought it was foolish to antagonize the locals.

“Well?” Ilas-Tei prompted.

“It’s true.” Yisra said.

The brothers groaned. “Worse decision possible,” Borvir lamented.

“Why?” I demanded.

“Because he’s one of them.”

“So Yisra told me, but I don’t understand what the problem with _them_ , is.”

“They think that every other race is lesser than them and should only be permitted to live in service to them.” Ilas-Tei hissed in disgust.

“They want to erase any other beliefs and traditions that aren’t their own.”

“They want to force all other provinces to bow their heads in servitude to the great Aldemeri Dominion.”

“They are cruel, and dishonorable, and should not be trusted. They think nothing of torture and kill indiscriminately,” Yisra finished.

The four of them went around the table with reason upon reason until it seemed like they were trying to one-up each other with the most outlandish crime. I understood that there had been wars between the various regions and atrocities were committed—that probably could be said for both sides—but it just didn’t describe the individual Altmer I had met thus far. Perhaps I was naïve, or simply foolish, but I preferred to give people the benefit of doubt first. If that policy bit me in the ass, well, I’d just deal with the consequences then.

My life fell into a pleasant routine starting with mornings surrounded by plants. Nildor continued to scold me for not getting my rest so we compromised that I wouldn’t start until the sun had risen enough to be seen over the crenulation in the walls but I was welcome to take some rest within the little alcove if staying in my own room was intolerable. It gave me the opportunity to tend to a little project of my own, starting a notoriously difficult plant by seed, that I was finally seeing progress with.

Once Nildor was up—how that mer loved to sleep in!—we’d start our reading and language lessons over tea and pastries. He would always have some new tea for us to try and a would take great pleasure in telling me the history of the particular blend, and often forgot the time entirely to the amusement of his apprentices. More than once I caught the students sharing knowing looks between themselves, but there was nothing between Nildor and I. He was a mentor to me, and I dare say, a friend. Nothing more.

As I had most mornings, I dropped off my cloak in the little alcove and headed to my project corner. Of my ten seeds, one had finally gotten to the transplantation stage. I coaxed the fragile green seedling, three tender leaves shivered with the movement, into its brand-new pot ready for the next stage of its life. So engrossed in my task, I didn’t hear anyone enter the room until they rapped sharply on the door frame behind me. Startled, I whirled around knocking the small clay pot with the tender seedling I had just set aside. The pot shattered on the floor sending the contents spilling across the stones.

My guest took a step forward before I could intervene, intentionally bringing their foot down on top of the bare seedling scant inches from my fingers. “My—apologies—for the interruption.”

My eyes flew up the black robes trimmed with gold-coloured ornaments to the face of the Altmer before me. Unlike Nildor’s usual jovial expression, the mer had a look of perpetual disdain etched into his face. His pale shoulder-length hair was brushed back displaying a sharp widow’s peak that only emphasized his other sharp features. My anger faltered under his scrutiny as he looked me up and down, apparently finding me lacking based on the way his expression tightened.

“I fail to see what the fuss is about.”

I scrambled to my feet, grasping the edge of the bench as a wave of dizziness washed over me on my abrupt ascent. “I beg your pardon?”

“You may.”

I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of my discomfort, but some people set off that primal little voice in your head that a predator lurks in the shadows and you shouldn’t turn your back on it. He definitely jangled the alarm bells at maximum volume. I turned slowly following him as he walked around me, continuing his visual inspection, muttering in yet another language I didn’t understand. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“I doubt it. You do not appear to be someone of any significance, and yet…” He folded his arms before him and tapped his long fingers impatiently. “What is it about you that has the senior members of the College so tight-lipped? Did you know that no new students have permitted to join the college since you arrived?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.” My temper started to rise at his smug look of satisfaction. I snapped back, “apparently you are of no significance either or they would have told you.” Oh, way to go, I berated myself silently, poke the scary elf. Daniel always did say that my temper was as skilled with a shovel at digging holes as I was.

Instead of being annoyed, my guest seemed amused. “Delightful, it has teeth. Tell me, did your previous hosts appreciate them?”

I hesitated, not sure of what exactly he had been told. “They were… neglectful. I don’t remember—”

“Yes, yes,” he waved his hand dismissively before me, “your ordeal. How tiresome.” Before I knew what was happening, his hand lashed out quick as a snake and jerked my chin around. I clenched my eyes shut, willing the world to stop spinning with the sharp movement. The hand that brushed the hair back from my neck was gentle in contrast to the painful grip on my chin. I suppressed the urge to shudder as he ran a finger behind my ear and down the side of my neck, tracing the faint shimmer of gold residue that adhered to my skin that no amount of scrubbing, solvents, or solutions would budge. Colette surmised that the drying of the matrix on my skin during transport from the ruin allowed it to bond to my skin. I was fortunate that Yisra and Ilas-Tei had done a good job in getting it off but there were places—mostly hidden under clothing, in folds of skin, between my toes and fingers, and some under my hair—that still retained the sheen. “A curious look. I do not suppose you know how you came by this colouring?”

“Ancano!”

I took advantage of the distraction Nildor’s arrival created and jerked my chin out of the loosened grasp, quickly escaping to the little alcove but not before I saw look of absolute fury on Nildor’s face.

I threw myself onto one of the couches in the alcove, tucking myself out of sight from the two Altmer that continued to bicker in a language I wholly didn’t understand. I blinked as my vision started to tunnel, unaware that I had pressed my hands to my chest until Nildor’s hands wrapped around my own.

“Isana? How can I help?” He paused, and prompted when I didn’t reply, “where is the vial?”

“Pocket. Cloak,” I gasped. 

Still holding my hands with one of his own, he reached past me for my cloak and pressed the small glass vial into my hands. He pulled the stopper from it and steadied my hand to pour a couple of drops of the alchemical compound under my tongue. Slowly my vision returned to normal as the rapid fluttering of my heart slowed down to a regular rhythm under the influence of the tincture.

“Are you all right?” he asked cautiously.

I promptly burst into tears. “No!” I wailed. “How can I be all right? I woke up and everything has changed. Everyone I knew and loved is gone. My best friend is dead. My heart doesn’t work like it used to. Sooner or later the college will get fed up with supporting me, and I have nowhere to go and will probably die of starvation. Or worse. And that, that _asshole_ purposefully squished the seedling I finally managed to start!” I looked up into his face and realized belatedly what I had said and to whom. “Oh shit!” I buried my face in my hands and cried even harder.

To my surprise, Nildor sat down beside me and after a moment’s hesitation, he wrapped his arms around my shoulders pulling me into his chest. I know I was told to be careful; I knew I shouldn’t trust him and his association with Ancano, but in that moment I didn’t care. It simply felt too good to be held to think of pulling away. Instead, I curled my fingers into the front of his tunic and held on. If the light pressure on the top of my head, either from his chin or his lips, was anything to go on, I think Nildor liked the closeness too.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Isana tries to broach the topic of Ancano and finds out things some surprising things about the Altmer race and Nildor, himself!

Sleep eluded me once again as I stared at the wooden ceiling high over my head; the little magelight, a quartz crystal no bigger than a large marble, cast a flickering light against the beams above me as I opened and closed my hand around it. A gift from Yisra when she had asked me about all the candles in my quarters. As much as light had hurt my eyes for the first weeks upon waking, I found that I could not abide the dark. It brought up too many memories of that night and the sensation of drowning never failed to press down on my chest when all the lights went out.

But it wasn’t those memories that kept me awake now. No, it was the scene from earlier in the day that bounced around in my head like a bunch of manic hamsters trying to dictate which direction to run on their little wheel.

Ancano and his interest had greatly disturbed me. I was fearful of what that interest may be. And yet, I had no proof of anything nefarious except confirmation that he was a certified asshole. One things for certain, I was completely pissed that he killed my seedling. I rolled my eyes at myself as I lay there in bed; yes, the biggest crime was a squashed plant.

But Nildor…Nildor was the greatest source of conflict and confusion. He had seemed well acquainted with Ancano, enough to go toe to toe with him in an argument and didn’t seem at all inclined to have reservations regarding the other Altmer’s status as a Thalmor. Whether that was because he had similar standing in the same organization or was simply foolishly brave to stand up for me against the other mer, I couldn’t say. It was a completely different side of him I had not before seen; he had practically crackled with energy when he returned from kicking Ancano out of the conservatory, and in a blink of an eye, that person vanished returning the attentive, deferential person I knew.

I’ll admit it put me completely off balance.

To make matters worse, I embarrassed myself thoroughly with my pity party. I could only hope that my words were too distorted by my crying for him to understand, but there was no way hide how I clung to him at the time. Or the way I brushed my hand down his chest in an idiotic attempt to wipe away the tearstains on his shirt. Or how I leaned into his hand when he pressed the compress to the rising bruise on my jaw from Ancano’s grip.

How was I supposed to go back to working and studying with him when I had made things so awkward between us? Was I deluding myself that he felt anything for me? He was kind and eager, but as everyone told me, Altmer do not mix with non-Altmer.

I threw my arm across my eyes and groaned. I am such an idiot.

Beyond my door, I could hear the apprentices start their day and I knew I should start mine as I spent far longer in bed than I should have, wallowing in my embarrassment and self-doubt. Finally, a voice in my head that sounded remarkably like Daniel’s, encouraged me to throw off the covers and haul myself out of bed. If he were here, he would laugh at me and say it couldn’t be as dire as I thought. He was, more than often, right.

When I arrived at the conservatory and slipped through the door, I found Nildor instructing a pair of his apprentices. No one paid any attention to me, to my relief. I paused briefly to hang my cloak in the alcove before heading down to the lower level where I knew to find all the supplies needed to restart my project.

Of the twelve pots I had started previously, just one had made it to the stage to be repotted for its next stage of growth, only to be ground under Ancano’s heel. I dumped a lump of chalk and a couple hands full of coarser limestone into the basin of the small mill. With a scarf tied over my mouth and nose, I took my grip on the crank handle and started the laborious task of breaking the contents down, losing myself in thought as I pushed and pulled on the handle.

Nightshade was notoriously difficult to start and establish, needing a very particular soil type that made the plant quite difficult to propagate in quantities sufficient for the alchemists. Ironically, and perhaps morbidly, one of the most common places to find it naturalized was in graveyards; however, most legitimate alchemists that desired the plant for therapeutic purposes were reluctant to harvest the plants from these areas. Something about offending Arkay by trespassing on his domain, whatever that meant. Those that didn’t fear to offend were generally not concerned with sharing the plant for its benevolent uses.

It was for its benevolent uses that held my interest, not only as a challenge to my professional skills but also on a personal level. The tincture that Colette provided me with was made from nightshade, as well as some less temperamental ingredients like blue mountain flowers and wheat which was distilled using mead. I could think of better alcohols that would have been more efficient than mead, but she and the Nord alchemist swore up and down that it was used because of the benefits provided from the honey it was made from. Frankly, I think it was simply due to the Nord obsession with the beverage.

Running the mill by hand was hard work and I soon felt sweat popping out along my hairline. The cool air of the lower level helped alleviate the warmth somewhat, but the rhythm of the mill faltered as I took my hand off the crank to wipe away a trickle at my temple.

“Let me take over.”

I startled hard at Nildor’s arm reaching around me to take his place at the crank. Over the noise of the mill, I didn’t hear him approach. I ducked out of his way and stood rubbing my arms to quiet the risen goosebumps that rose, whether from being startled or his breath on the back of my neck, I couldn’t say.

“Sorry.” He glanced at me quickly as he set his rhythm on the crank. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

I pulled the scarf from my face. “You didn’t. I mean, you did, but it’s fine. I was lost in thought.” I turned away to gather the other items I needed, thankful that lower light hid the heat in my face that bloomed as I tripped over my words.

“You didn’t stop for our morning tea.”

I couldn’t help glancing at him; he sounded disappointed.

“You were with apprentices. I didn’t want to disturb you—”

“You could never disturb me, Isana.” I didn’t know how to respond, thankfully he didn’t let the awkward silence linger for too long. He opened the mill and indicated to the ground contents. “Will this do?” When I nodded, he poured it out into a small pail. “Gather what else you need, and let’s return upstairs for our belated tea and cakes.”

I relented with a fond smile—him and his sweet-tooth.

With my potting supplies set aside on a work bench, Nildor ushered me into the little alcove before hurrying off to fetch the tea.

“Will just be a minute. The water has gone cold,” he said, ducking his head into the room, like he was worried that I would change my mind and leave. In less time than I would have thought to heat the water, he returned with a heavily loaded tray that he placed before us. To my surprise, he sat down beside me instead of his usual spot across the little table. He served me my tea and then tucked into a sweetroll, taking meticulous care to pull it apart without getting the gleaming sticky syrup all over his fingers.

I turned my teacup in my hand, wondering how to broach the subject and decided that the direct approach would be best. “I am sorry about what happened yesterday with Ancano—"

He waved his hand. “Do not give it another thought. I haven’t.”

I made a show of frowning in concern into my teacup. “You and Ancano aren’t friends?”

He snorted. “Hardly. He is under the misguided opinion that because we hail from the same area, graduated from the same academy, that we share—” I caught him glancing at me from the corner of my eye, “a certain opinion. I disabused him of the notion that he could mistreat my apprentices—any of my apprentices—regardless of what those opinions might be.”

I shouldn’t have felt disappointed by his answer, but I was. Did he really see me as nothing more than an apprentice? One that he agreed to tutor in language skills in an exchange of labour.

“I take it that neither of you are from Skyrim originally?”

“No. The Summerset Isles. We both received our training in northern Auridon. I always thought he was an arrogant prat.”

My breath caught in my throat and I pretended to take a sip of tea to disguise my reaction. Was that confirmation that he was also Thalmor, or was it some other training he referred to? I had no idea how to ask without raising suspicions. Instead I chose what I thought was a safer topic. “Do you still have family in… Summerset?”

“Yes, my parents, sister, and a mate still reside in Alinor.”

There was no hiding my reaction as I choked on my tea. He quickly wiped his fingers, turned sideways on the chaise to take the cup from me and pat my back. Hesitantly, it seemed, he withdrew his hand from my back but didn’t otherwise move away as I waved him off and retrieved my tea to take another cautious sip as I tried to adjust to this news. I could feel his eyes on me, and I wondered if he was as aware of how his knee rested against my leg as I was.

“I should say _former_ mate; our bond has been dissolved for some time now. Our union was perfect on parchment I’ll grant you that, but the reality of living, breathing persons with their own wants and desires; we were not so compatible. Lysandryll and I gave it our best but neither of us were very happy.” A crooked smile appeared on his face as he reminisced. “The gossips in the Alinor society circles were aghast when we agreed to a mutual dissolution of our bond after only twenty-nine years.”

“Twenty-nine years?” I asked faintly. “But you don’t look… I mean…were you children?”

He laughed softly, but not in a way that mocked me. “I suppose we were. I was all of one hundred when we married, Lysandryll was not much older.”

I blinked in surprise. “Oh...”

“I’ve upset you.”

I shook the expression from my face as I shook my head. “No, not at all. I just had no idea that you—that the lifespan of Mer was so different than…” I wanted to say humans, but I suddenly realized that I didn’t know how long Nords, Redguards, or any of the other races lived either. For all I knew, they could live just as long. “How old are—nevermind—you don’t have to answer that.” I felt the heat of my embarrassment warm my cheeks as I glanced away.

“I’ll tell you, if you tell me,” he said playfully. Before I could agree to his terms, he puffed up his chest in some comical version of what was supposed to be a dashing pose and flipped his hair over his shoulder. “Still handsome for one hundred and thirty-eight.” He immediately dropped the pose and leaned toward me eagerly, placing his hands on my leg. “Your turn.”

“Umm…” The heat of his hands was highly distracting. “I’m thirty-two. Or thirty-three.” Minus seven thousand years, but who was counting?

He sat up, removing his hands from my leg. “Do you not remember how old you are?”

I looked away from his worried expression and shrugged. “I’m not sure. It’s complicated.” What else could I possibly say without giving away my origins to someone who could still potentially be a threat to my continued existence?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, I'm loving this mer more and more with every chapter, lol! 
> 
> Comments, kudos, emojis, gifs are all loved and appreciated 😁


	10. Chapter 10

With my expanding literacy of the language and letter forms, Nildor had migrated from providing simple books to the more technical and relevant texts to our interests such as field guides to common native plants, books on regional cultivars and their associated cultural significance, and the effects of the arcane on plant growth and habits. The alchemist eagerly supplied a book or two on plants for alchemy once he learned of my current project that aligned with his area of expertise. My current quest of reading material; however, was of a more personal nature. There were other things I wanted to know about the world I now lived in that I couldn’t easily ask of others. My curiosity led me to familiarize myself with the college’s library and, in turn, its Orcish head librarian, Urag gro-Shub, I fully admit that he intimidated the hell out of me with his gruff demeanour, his physical size, and his very present tusks. Apart from a warning to refrain from dog-earring the pages any books I chose to read (as if I would desecrate a book in that fashion!), he left me well enough alone after pointing me mostly in the direction I requested.

I had just started my way into _An Explorer's Guide to Skyrim_ when Yisra dropped a book onto the table, startling me much to her delight, and earning us a glare and sternly grumbled warning from Urag. The book landed, front cover down obscuring the title, but the back cover was decorated with gilded vines and what appeared to be hand painted flowers.

“What’s this?” I asked, picking the book off the table.

“I thought it might interest you.”

The barely contained glee in her voice and sly look she shot my way should have been sufficient warning as I turned the volume over to read the cover. “Romantic Sonnets and Poems from the Summerset Isles, Third Era,” I read aloud.

“You and Nildor can take turns reading them to each other.”

I hastily returned the book to the table—albeit with more care than she had. “Why…why would you suggest this?”

“The epic romance going on between the two of you. It’s as sickly sweet as those pastries he keeps ordering from the kitchens.”

I shook my head with the errant passing thought to wonder how she would know of his preference for pastries. “There’s no romance, epic or otherwise, going on.”

“Are you mad? All his apprentices are talking about it. He never taken tea with any of them, just you. And you’ve been seen cozied up together in that little alcove of his.”

I huffed in exasperation. “He’s teaching me to read, Yisra! If we’re cozied up, it’s because we’re going over the same page in a book. Besides, you and the others have told me time and time again that Altmer don’t hold other races in the same regard. He wouldn’t romance someone that he felt was lesser.”

She leaned in to continue with a low voice, “if he thought you were lesser, he wouldn’t have risked what he did to stand up to Ancano, a known Thalmor agent. Everyone’s been talking about the row between the two of them. Over you.”

“It wasn’t ‘over me’ like that at all!” I protested, louder than I should have. I lowered my voice and leaned toward her at her hiss and Urag’s repeated glare at us. “Ancano was hurting me and he put a stop to it.”

“He hurt you?” she growled.

“Not like… he grabbed my chin and Nildor walked in at that point and interrupted.”

She sat up abruptly. “Does he know?”

“He who? I don’t know what either of them do or do not know. I certainly haven’t said anything to anyone.”

I breathed a sigh of relief that the interrogation would be at an end as Ilas-Tei, Borvir, and Rundi arrived, only to cringe as the Borvir scraped his chair across the stone floor with a loud screech before he dropped himself into it backwards. At this rate, I was never going to be allowed back into the Arcanaeum. Ilas-Tei picked up the book of poetry and started flipping idly through the pages as he tapped his ring against the edge of the table.

“What are we talking about?” Borvir asked.

“The budding romance of our friend here.”

“Oh that,” Rundi grumbled, looking decidedly unhappy much to my surprise. He pulled out a dagger and started cleaning his nails. “Could do better than the goldenrod.”

“Don’t call him that—”

“See?” Yisra sat back in her chair with a smug look on her face like I had just proven her point. “You’re as quick to jump to his defense as he is to yours.”

“As I would to yours,” I retorted.

Ilas’Tei bared his teeth—I still couldn’t read his expressions well enough to know if he was grinning or grimacing—as he tossed the book of poetry onto the table. “I suppose we’ll just have to see what happens tonight.”

All of them nodded eagerly much to my growing unease. “What’s tonight?”

Yisra rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice all the tables being dragged out into the courtyard or were you still besotted after your morning visit?”

“Well yes. I thought it was just spring cleaning or something.”

“No. It’s for the annual celebration of the founding of the College by the Arch-mage Shalidor,” Yisra stated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Although no one knows exactly when the college was founded, the spring is a good enough time to celebrate.”

“And why is that?”

“Mead!” Rundi and Borvir said in stereo. To my surprise, they reached across the table and gave each other a high five. Huh.

“Respect the space or get out!” Urag barked at them. I cringed but the others seemed unconcerned.

“If the weather is warmer, people are less likely to freeze to death when they pass out—”

“Or set themselves on fire,” Ilas-Tei added pointedly looking at Yisra. Wonder what that was about.

“Okay,” I said slowly. “So what does that have to do with this _imaginary_ romance you think is going on?”

“Everything! The apprentices said that the gold— _Nildor_ —” Yisra corrected herself at my glare, “Nildor hasn’t once attended the celebration since joining the college several years ago. But if you go and he shows up…”

“That still means nothing. He could just have changed his mind this year.”

“We’ll see.” She pursed her lips critically as she looked me up and down. “We need to find you something to wear. You can’t go to the celebration like you just climbed out of a mine… or a ruin.” She ignored my glare and pulled me from my seat.

My cane, propped up against the chair clattered to the floor, finally drawing Urag’s ire. “That’s it! All of you, out of my arcanaeum! Mind you put those books away first!”

Yisra piled the half dozen books I had pulled out under one arm, shoved my cane and the book of poetry into my hand with a sly wink, and hooked her free arm through mine before I could protest. “Isana’s borrowing these!” she called over her shoulder as she dragged me from the library.

“Stop pulling at that,” Yisra hissed at me, adjusting the collar of the blouse back where she wanted after I had, for the fifth time, tugged it up further onto my shoulder.

Completely dissatisfied with the meagre selection of my own wardrobe, which consisted of three belted tunics, two pairs of pants, several sets of “smalls”, and a cloak, she had raided her own belongings to find something that we could adjust to fit me. She had a good four to five inches of height on me but the corset-like belt she secured around my waist held the skirt we pleated up to an appropriate length. Now if I could only do something about the bare shoulders. The bare shoulders would not have concerned me, at least not if I was still in my own time, but the faint shimmer of gold that I could see skimming my shoulder as I shifted before the mirror in Yisra’s room made me feel very self-conscious, particularly in light of Ancano’s recent interest. I shuddered; the ghost of his fingers tracing the same streak along my neck made my skin crawl. With that thought in mind, I wrapped my cloak over myself, covering my bared shoulders.

Yisra sighed. “The streaks aren’t as visible as you think, no one is going to notice in the torchlight. Here—” She reached around the back of her own neck to undo her necklace. “You can wear my necklace. It’ll give the eyes something else to focus on.”

“No, no,” I protested. “You wear it. It looks spectacular on you.” It did, too. The gleaming white stones looked fabulous against her rich coppery skin. “Please Yisra, don’t fuss. If Ancano isn’t there, I’ll take the cloak off.”

“Promise?” she asked, fussing with a long bit of my bangs that kept falling across my face instead of staying tucked into the braid she had created across the crown of my head.

“I promise,” I sighed, knowing that she wouldn’t let up until I said so.

The festivities were already well under way by the time we left Yisra’s room and headed down to the courtyard. Musicians playing from the shelter of the main doors; I didn’t see Urag in among the celebrants so I could only assume how annoyed he would be to have the music that close to his cherished space located just behind them. Tables and chairs were set up along the perimeter, groaning with food and drink, and surrounded by students grabbing a bit to eat and drink before diving back into the enthusiastic dancing at the center. Wooden platforms had been put together to extend the central walkway before the statue into a much larger surface for that purpose. Gaily decorated poles were erected around the dance area, strung with paper lanterns that bobbed in the air currents, making the courtyard look markedly different than its usual neglected appearance.

Yisra towed me to a table that the others had claimed, conveniently halfway between the refreshments and entertainment. I’d barely managed to claim a seat before Rundi had whisked me off to the dance floor despite my protests. Oh, he made a good effort to keep me on my feet but he didn’t seem to notice that I wasn’t participating so much as trying to keep up as I got dizzier and dizzier as he spun us around. He was none too pleased when Borvir took over before the first dance had hardly ended and reappeared immediately as the music started to wane at the end of the second. Neither of them took any notice of my protests, one way or another.

To my relief, Yisra came to my rescue and I made my way to a bench that everyone ignored as it was too removed from all the food, drink, and fun. It suited my purposes perfectly as I leaned back against the stone behind me and closed my eyes for a few minutes to try to regain my equilibrium.

Footsteps echoed sharply off the stone walkway behind me, then crunched on the stone pathway headed for the dancing. They paused for a moment as if the person was looking for something before continuing. I kept my eyes shut and chanted to myself: just go away. Keep moving. Nothing to see here.

“You’re not enjoying the dancing?”

My eyes popped open at Nildor’s voice. “Ah, no. It’s fine to watch but all the spinning and whirling around they like to do,” I said with a tip of my chin toward the makeshift dance floor, “makes me very dizzy.”

“Watching? With your eyes closed?”

I answered his amused question with a sheepish smile and a shrug.

“May I join you?” He raised an eyebrow and tipped his head at the empty space on the bench beside me.

“Of course. I didn’t expect… I mean I heard that you didn’t attend…”

“Asking about me, were you?” he said lightly, sounding very pleased.

“Uh… that’s what I overheard from the others. That the faculty didn’t usually partake.” I added hastily. I refrained from looking to my right where Tolfdir stood chatting amiably with Savos and Mirabelle.

He hummed thoughtfully. “I was hoping that you would be attending. I have something for you, if you permit?”

I nodded. I don’t know where he had kept it, or how I had missed it, but he presented me with a single perfect camellia bloom, snow white with streaks of deep pink at the heart, with a light scent of cinnamon. I knew, of course, that he kept camellias in the conservatory for his own tea blend, but I wondered if he knew the significance of gifting camellias, if the meaning still held true after seven thousand years. “Thank you, it’s beautiful.”

“Yes.”

I looked up from the bloom to find him staring at me. Even in the dark with only the paper lanterns to provide light, he was close enough to me that I could see the little flecks of gold in the amber colour of his eyes. The light highlighted the perfectly straight line down his nose and the slight flare at the tips of his pointed ears, ears that I had thought alien in the beginning that were now so elegant to my eyes.

My gaze dropped to his lips as they parted, and I froze as he leaned in toward me. I could feel his breath on my face before he suddenly changed direction to plant a warm kiss upon my bare shoulder, right over one of the streaks I had been trying to hide. I inhaled sharply.

“Isana?”

I blinked. He sat before me, unmoved from his original position with a slightly concerned look on his face.

“Are you all right?”

I nodded frantically, mortified. Get a grip, I chided myself. I knew I was touched-starved—bawling in his arms earlier in the week didn’t make up for millennia of isolation, even if I hadn’t been aware of the passage of time—but I was letting the others’ speculations of an non-existent romance drive my imagination. An imagination I needed to rein in before I thoroughly embarrassed myself and drove away someone who was, at the very least, becoming a dear friend.

He looked away to the dancing to give me a chance to collect myself, then to my disappointment he stood up.

“Ah, thank you again for the…”

He turned back to me and made a courtly bow as he had upon our first meeting. He held his hand out to me, palm up. “Dance with me? I promise I won’t spin you around and make you dizzy.”

My heart did a little flip in my chest at his delighted smile when I placed my hand in his and stood up at his urging.

“Oh, wait.” I pulled my hand from his, I wasn’t worried about my cloak or my walking stick, no one would bother with them, but I didn’t want someone to take my flower if I left it on the bench. I tried to weave it into the braid Yisra created in my hair, unsuccessfully; the flower drooped over my ear.

“Here,” Nildor said softly, his fingers meeting mine, “allow me.” He extricated the flower from my hair and carefully wove the stem through the braid securing it neatly. He brushed away strands that fallen into my eyes and tucked them behind my ear. I could feel the heat of his hands, if only in a feather-light touch, as he skated over my shoulder and down my arm to gather my hand and tuck it into his elbow to guide me to the dance.

He was wrong: he did make me feel like the world was spinning too quickly, but dancing had absolutely nothing to do with it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Isana comes to a decision, receives upsetting news, and takes a risk.

Despite how late it had been the previous evening when I retired, I woke very early. The light through the narrow window of my room had barely begun to turn to dawn with how far north we were. Reluctant to get out of bed, I recounted the hours Nildor and I spent together during the evening; as promised he led me through a couple of dances with care, we sat and talked when the music was too quick, and when the party was getting too boisterous, we strolled up to the top of one of the towers to watch the curtain of light dance across the sky. I could still feel the heat of Nildor’s arms around my shoulders when he mistook my visceral shudder at the sight of the second moon as a sign that I was cold and had pulled me into the shelter of his arms.

I rolled over and the little magelight sitting on my desk caught my eye. It illuminated the camellia I had stuck into a small alchemy glass at the end of the evening. The flower practically glowed in the darkness. A white camellia streaked with pink. It meant feelings of affection and longing for someone. And Nildor had given it to me.

I couldn’t deny—although I would never admit it to Yisra—that she might have been right about his interest in me. Perhaps I had been too close to see if for myself and consumed with other worries, including buying into all that I had told about the Altmer’s disregard for other races, which was obviously not true.

I also believed the stories about the Thalmor, but Ancano was little more than a puffed-up bureaucrat that Nildor has simply put in place with no further repercussions to him or myself. The Thalmor were boogiemen and nothing more.

I knew if we were going to have any sort of meaningful relationship, I couldn’t hide who I was from Nildor.

I needed to tell him everything.

I was going to tell him everything.

I sat up cautiously and swung my legs over the edge of the bed, waiting for the inevitable vertigo to pass. Happily, the spells were becoming shorter and less intense as time went on as Colette predicted, and today, I wasn’t going to let it get me down no matter how bad it was. I got up and dressed, and as I stood before the little looking glass to brush my hair, I wished that I had something pretty to wear. I stroked my fingers across the petals of the camellia and suddenly realized that I did have something pretty.

Ready for the day, with the camellia secured in my hair once more with a green ribbon Yisra had given me, I pulled open the door to my quarters and nearly ran full-tilt into someone on the other side of it.

“Oh! My dear,” Tolfdir startled and then as an after thought, hurriedly lowered his hand posed to rap on my door, or on my nose, as the door was no longer present. “I was just coming to see you.”

“Good morning Master Tolfdir. I’m actually on my way to see…to my duties,” I replied trying to politely step around him, but he wasn’t taking the hint. “I could come to see you before the mid-day meal.”

He gave me a patiently sympathetic smile which immediately put me on the defensive and remained steadfast in my path. “It would be best if we spoke first.”

Resigned, I stepped back into my room and folded my arms. “What is this about?”

“You are excused from your duties in the conservatory today—”

“What! Why?”

“You will need to pack your things,” he glanced around at my meagre belongings, “ready for the carriage tomorrow at dawn.”

“The carriage?” I frowned. “Where am I going?”

“Yes, the College needs to fulfill its obligation. Calcelmo has written repeatedly to inquire and Colette has deemed you recovered enough.”

I could feel the tension in my brow and jaw grow as I tried to understand what he was telling me. “I don’t understand what the College’s obligation has to do with me? Where am I going?”

“The dig was a joint venture between us and Calcelmo with the expressed understanding that any relics—” he winced at his own words, “would be sent to Markarth for Calcelmo’s inspection and research.”

I could feel the blood draining from my face as a wave of dizziness forced me to sit on the edge of my bed. “I’m not something to be examined and taken apart for someone’s curiosity.”

“Wha— Oh, no!” Tolfdir looked shocked himself and sat down on the only available chair. “Nothing like that, my dear. You will be quite safe. Calcelmo wishes to speak to you about your race and civilization.

“We are mindful that you are a person and have negotiated with Calcelmo into providing you with board and a small wage in keeping with a field apprentice.”

Big of them to recognize that I was a real person even if they weren’t giving me any choices like one. I thought frantically how I could get out of being sent away but I had no resources, no position to make demands. The only thing I could think of was to get Nildor to tell them that he needed me in the conservatory. “I need to tell Nildor—” I said woodenly.

“He has already been informed that you would be unavailable to continue your project for the time being.”

I jerked my head up in surprise. Nildor already knew and didn’t put a stop to it?

Tolfdir continued, oblivious to my growing distress, “speaking of which, you haven’t told him of your origins?” I shook my head. “Good, good. It would be best if you didn’t. We are aware of your growing... attachment, but in light of the unrest growing with the Empire, it would be best to remain quiet a little while longer. Until we are certain of allegiances.”

“But surely he’s been with the College long enough—”

“Normally, I would say agree with you. However, with Ancano’s arrival and the reports the administration received on…the altercation with—" he pressed his lips together and patted me on my shoulder. “It would be safer to remain quiet and remove yourself from the College for a short while. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that.”

I sat there stunned, stewing in a tumult of emotions and thoughts at my new situation.

Tolfdir, misconstruing my silence for acceptance, patted my knee. “The carriage will be leaving at dawn on the morrow to meet with the carriage in Windhelm that will carry you on to Markarth. The porter will come for your things.”

I remained seated after he left; I was scared to death at the thought of leaving the familiar stone walls of the college. I had always been up for exploring and new adventures with friends, but my current reality made me feel like I was standing on crumbling ground. I didn’t know which way the hazard lay, whether the better course of action was to remain in place or move on lest the ground beneath me broke apart. I was furious that I had become a pawn in a game, subject to the will of others simply because of my circumstances. Furious that a— _douchecanoe_ —like Ancano had any impact on how I spent my days.

Worst of all, Tolfdir’s comment about being out of sight, out of mind struck me like a blow to the solar plexus. The relationship, if there was to be one, between Nildor and I was just beginning to bloom. Was it still too fragile, like the crushed seedling under Ancano’s heel, to survive a separation?

It was this final worry that pushed me to my feet and hurrying out the door toward the conservatory. Toward Nildor. Perhaps he could do something.

I found Nildor in the little alcove we normally took our tea. He was silently stacking the books we had been going over the previous couple of days with a slow deliberation.

“They’re sending me away,” I stated flatly. “Some place called Markarth. I’m supposed to go to see some researcher to tell him everything about my...” Tolfdir’s request made me stumble over my words.

He dropped the books at my words and whirled around taking a hold of my shoulders. “Shhh. Don’t say anything more.”

My eyes widened in surprise. Did he know? “Do you know—”

My words were cut off by Nildor pressing his fingers to my mouth. “What I do or do not know, is immaterial. If you do not tell me, then I have nothing to say if asked.”

What was that supposed to mean?

“Did the College give you a stipend for travel?” he asked, changing the subject.

“No…” I recalled my conversation with Tolfdir but he hadn’t mentioned anything apart from the carriage having been arranged.

He eyed my clothing and shoes. “What about clothing for travel? A heavier cloak? Boots? A bedroll?”

I shifted uncomfortably with the direction the conversation was headed. “No. Do I really need those? Summer is approaching, won’t what I have be enough?”

“No. Markarth might be more southerly than the College but it is a harsh place built into the mountains. Your clothing isn’t sturdy enough to last. If I know the College, and Calcelmo, they haven’t arranged for stops at inns on the way so you will be sleeping out of doors.” He shuddered. “Come on, let’s go into town and get what you need.”

I hesitated to take his offered elbow and looked away with growing embarrassment. “I can’t. I’ll have to make do with what I have.”

“Isana?” When I didn’t respond, he stepped into my line of sight and gathered my hands in his. “What’s wrong?”

“I—I can’t buy supplies. I don’t have any money.”

He slapped his palm to his forehead—I couldn’t help smiling at that—and groaned. “Of course, you don’t. I’m sorry, that was completely thoughtless of me. Come on then,” he said, offering his elbow again.

Gamily, I took his arm. “So where are we going?”

“To town.” He cast a glance at me as I made a noise of protest. “Please allow me. The College provides me with every necessity and a wage besides. I have no expenses beyond the odd courier to home.”

“But…”

“No arguments! I insist!”

Any arguments I might have had were quickly forgotten in favour of watching where my feet were placed as we made our way across the long bridge from the College to the town below. I hated that bridge with a passion and the howling wind that whipped up from the Sea of Ghosts regardless of the mild spring weather didn’t make the precarious passage any better. I breathed a sigh of relief when my feet finally crunched on solid gravel at the far end and we made our way into Birna's Oddments which was only the first of several stops we would make in town.

Nildor quickly selected a bedroll and waterskin. He explained that while the carriage would carry water barrels, having my own waterskin was a good idea in case of emergency. The bedroll would be better than anything offered along the way and would make the hard, stone beds I should expect in Markarth a little more comfortable. But when he bought a small trunk, I became a little more apprehensive; how much exactly was he planning to purchase for me?

We left Birna with instructions to send the trunk and the other purchases to the College. After a couple of other stops, I was led down a narrow path that cut between a couple of shops, including the town’s tailor, to a non-descript door set back from the path by a set of steps. Nildor’s eyes sparkled, as he rapped his knuckles against the door frame. “Best kept secret in Winterhold,” he said shooting me a conspiratorial wink.

The door creaked open to reveal an elderly looking Redguard woman. “What brings you to my door?” she asked sharply. Her eyes flicked in my direction.

He sketched a bow. “We come seeking your expertise. My companion is taking a trip to Markarth as a representative of the College and requires appropriate wear for the travel and her station.”

“The tailor’s shop is just in front,” she retorted, starting to close the door.

To my surprise, Nildor stuck his foot in the door to prevent it closing. “Now, now,” he chided. “You and I both know that if you want the best, you go to the source.”

She chortled and threw open the door. “Flatterer! Well don’t stand there chittering like a wrung out nixad; come in and I’ll make us a pot, shall I?”

Kiayin, it turned out, was the talented seamstress that supplied most of the better clothing to the shop she tried to send us to. She also made much of the jarl’s family’s clothing, although, according to her, they were not aware that their finery was made by a non-Nord. She and Nildor chuckled together over their little conspiracy which I gathered he had a hand in, but they didn’t seem too inclined on sharing how that came to be.

In any case, I was kept too busy being measured then bundled behind a screen to try on various styles until Kiayin was satisfied with the fit. The pile of tunics and pants grew at an alarming rate, to which she added several pairs of smalls and knit socks, as well as a pair of boots that somehow appeared when I was changing back into my regular clothing. Nildor stood up when I emerged and held out an understated but gorgeous shear-lined coat for me to try.

I shook my head. “Nildor, it’s too much.”

Kiayin tapped me on the shoulder with her free hand, the other burdened with the bundle of approved clothing. “Take it from me, when that one—” she jerked her chin in Nildor’s direction, “gets it in his mind to help, not even the Morag Tong—” Nildor winced, “can sway him from his course. Travelling through the mountain passes, even this time of year, can be bitter cold. Best you try that on,” she advised before slipping into a tiny backroom to package the clothing.

When we finally wrapped up our shopping spree, I was feeling exceedingly spoiled and more than a little confused at what had just transpired. Nildor apparently had a history of helping others out of difficult situations—f I had read between the lines correctly with Kiayin—which was admirable, but I suddenly found myself floundering with uncertainty. Were all his kindnesses toward me simply an expression of that same compassion; that need to help those down on their luck, or was there more to it? I _had_ caught Kiayin’s eyes on the flower in my hair and sly smiles that followed. I chewed on my lip in thought as he proceeded me down the narrow steps to the street. I could see only one course of action before me.

“Nildor?” He stopped on the step below me and turned. “Why are you doing this?”

“You are the victim of circumstances beyond your control. I can only begin to imagine what it is like to have lost… everything. If buying you some clothes and travel supplies in any way reduces your burdens, then I’m happy to do so. And I…” His eyes flicked from my face to the flower tucked in my hair and back. “That is…”

It was rash and reckless and probably ill-advised, if I were wrong, I could apologize while drowning in mortification. I took my heart in my hands and threw myself into the abyss. Because of the steps, we were nearly of the same height; I leaned forward quickly and placed a soft, lingering kiss on his lips and withdrew to await the fallout.

For a moment, he stood there in stunned, unblinking silence with only a darkening flush across his cheekbones to betray anything had occurred. Had I made an error and embarrassed us both? Slowly—far too slowly for my liking—his face morphed into giddy delight. One hundred and thirty-eight years old and he wore the flushed grin of a teenaged boy—or girl—after receiving their first kiss. And perhaps it was, I had no idea if the Mer showed affection by kissing. The few Altmer I was acquainted with didn’t appear to interact with anyone beyond a professional level.

“Oh!” He blinked and his brows rose near into his hairline. “Oh! Does that mean you return my affection? That you… for me?” He pointed at himself to emphasize the last question.

I could feel the heat colour my own face as I nodded, suddenly feeling like a shy teenager myself, under his delighted gaze. I drew a sharp breath as he stepped closer and stroked the back of his knuckles along my jaw that, only a week earlier, he had held to apply a compress for the bruises left by Ancano’s rough handling. His eyes shifted to the flower in my hair and I could feel the flower move ever so slightly in my hair from the light touch of his fingers stroking the petals.

“I didn’t know if you understood…” His fingertips traced the shell of my ear, its round shape so unlike the sharp contours of his own. “If you would feel as I do…”

I instinctively tipped my face up as he leaned in toward me, only for him to jerk back at the sound of a shout at the end of the small alleyway we stood in. I nearly stumbled off the steps in my attempt to follow him.

“Forgive me. This is not the appropriate time or place—” He shot me a chagrined look and offered his elbow to steady myself. “I do not wish to make things difficult for you.”

“You couldn’t,” I automatically replied.

He pressed his lips together without a reply. We emerged onto the main street to find the shadows longer than I had expected. “We should return to the College.”

As we walked silently along our return path, the weight of Nildor’s hand pressing over my own resting on his arm took on a new meaning. My heart felt lighter than it had at any time in my life, and yet I couldn’t dispel to ball of dread that grew in the pit of my stomach. I was leaving in a matter of hours. I wasn’t particularly worried that he’d forget about me in my absence.

I worried about not coming back.

I had heard the stories about bandits attacking travellers, wild animals and sudden storms, disgruntled citizens attacking those suspected to be sympathetic to the other side in the growing unrest. I had heard about the Foresworn in the Reach and the crime rate in Markarth; people vanishing or being murdered in the streets. I didn’t know how to navigate those perils.

The gates of the College closed behind us as we stepped into the courtyard before the great statue. I turned and looked to find Nildor looking at me with a soft smile on his face. “Nildor…”

“Isana!”

We both jerked her heads up. Yisra, Ilas-Tei, Rundi, and Borvir came crashing out of the hall where my quarters were located. I noted with some consternation that the brothers each had a small barrel of mead tucked under their arms.

“Issie!” Rundi shouted. I winced at the pet name that only Daniel had used. “We’re having a going away celebration and you’re the guest of honour!”

“Yes,” Yisra stated, wedging herself between Nildor and I to take my hand from his arm. “We five are going to have a little party. It’s all planned.”

“Nildor…” I said quietly.

“I’ll see you before you leave,” he replied, equally quiet. He sketched a bow to the group, but his eyes remained fixed on mine. “Enjoy yourselves. Good evening.”

“Come on,” Yisra tugged me around toward the apprentice quarters, “let’s go have some fun before you go!”

I glanced back over my shoulder but Nildor had already vanished into the darkened conservatory. I could only hope that we’d have a bit of time before my carriage left at dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well the last chapter was a bit short but I think this one may have made up for it. Thank you all for reading and following my little story—comments, kudos, keyboard smashes, gifs, and emojis are all loved and appreciated!
> 
> Oh! Oh! And thank you to [paraparadigm](https://paraparadigm.tumblr.com/) for my first fanart! Squee, I love it! Nildor and Isana sharing a sweetroll 🥰 If any of you haven't read Para's Skyrim fic "[Always Read the Fine Print](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20168293)", I highly recommend it (and not just because of the "Sleeping Dwemer Guide" Easter Egg, lol! )  
> 


	12. Chapter 12

A rhythmic tap woke me from my fitful sleep. Peeling my eyes open, I groaned at the telltale pain of a hangover headache making itself known. That was going to make for a pleasant start of my journey.

The rapping noise that woke me repeated itself followed by a muffled “miss”. The porter had arrived to pick up my things for the carriage. I sat up swiftly—a mistake—and called out “just a minute” as I battled the urge to vomit from the sudden vertigo from both the hangover, and my own condition. With the world settled back onto its axis, I hurried to the door and let the porter in. I realized I should have grabbed a cloak before opening the door as the porter’s eyes drifted down the sleep shirt I wore, widening when they got to the hem just above my knees. The nightshirt was quite modest by my own standards, but I had completely forgotten for one moment that I was no longer in a world where things like mini skirts and short shorts were a norm.

He licked his lips but didn’t move his eyes from my bare legs. “Um, your luggage?”

“Right there. By the door.”

He tore his gaze reluctantly away and glanced to his left. The trunk sat on the bench easily within his reach. “Oh. right.” I hastily wrapped my cloak around me as he turned his back briefly to pick up the trunk. “I’ll just—” His eyes traced my covered form and got stuck at my bare feet.

_What the hell, creeper?_

“Right,” he said, the disappointment was clear in his voice. He cleared his throat, “right. Get this to the carriage.”

I hurried to the door and shut it as soon as he had crossed the threshold. I was running out of time; if I wanted to have any chance of seeing Nildor before I left, I had to get myself organized.

I dressed quickly in the clothes I had set aside for travelling and rolled up my sleep shirt and tucked into the pack I was going to carry. Along with it were some basic toiletries I stuffed in after brushing my hair, a supply of tincture for my heart as well as a copy of the recipe for me to replenish my supply when I arrived in Markarth. The key to my trunk was hung on the ribbon around my neck hidden under my shirt. I ran my finger over the camellia bloom with a feeling of regret. I couldn’t take it with me, it would get crushed and they didn’t press well. Instead it sat in a shallow dish of sand and I hoped that it would be well dried and preserved by the time I returned. I did slip in the An Explorer's Guide to Skyrim and the book of Altmer poetry into the pack along with the small enchanted magelight from Yisra. With nothing else to pack, I grabbed my walking stick and headed to the gates of the College to wait for Nildor.

The gates were open as a slow trickle of people passed through either off to the town or into the College. There was no sign of Nildor, nor any of the four from the previous evening, although I knew well enough not to expect them as they would be sleeping off the alcohol that they liberally imbibed.

The porter, who took my trunk, returned, and spotted me standing to the side. “Driver said he’s leaving in a quarter whether you’re on or not. Won’t be back this way for another four days.”

_Damn it._ I couldn’t wait any longer as it would take me fifteen minutes to screw up the courage to cross the shattered bridge and make my way down into the town. With a final wistful glance back at the darkened conservatory, I headed out of the gates.

The driver was in the process of backing the horse between the shafts of the carriage when I finally arrived, windblown and slightly shaken from my solo passage. He looked my way briefly and with a grunt pointed me to the side where a couple with a young child, buttery blonde hair caught up in a pair of wispy braids, stood waiting under the eaves of the livery stable. The parents smiled indulgently as the little girl swung on their hands, chattering in an animated fashion typical of their age with all the excitement of the upcoming adventure.

It took both the child and I a few moments to realize that the demeanour of her parents had shifted, becoming stiff. The mother pulled the child to her while the father stepped before them, glowering over my head as his hand reached for the haft of wicked looking axe on his belt. Alarmed, I spun around and immediately relaxed as I recognized Nildor hurrying towards us.

“Isana! I’m sorry I was late to walk you down—” his eyes flickered to the trio behind me and hardened momentarily before returning to me. He took my hand in his and urged me away from the others.

“Don’t be going far. Mildred don’t like to stand around once she’s hitched,” the driver called to us.

He drew me around the side of the livery doors and fumbled in the pockets of his voluminous cloak to pull out a long, sheathed dagger. He pressed the weapon into my hands, closing my fingers over it, while he held my gaze with his own intense one. “Keep this out of sight but keep it on your person at all times. There are dangers…” He glanced again over my shoulder in the direction of the family. “Stay in the city and up at the keep.”

I was suddenly feeling very apprehensive about what I had already considered to be an ill-advised trip. “Nildor…”

He took a step closer, still clasping my hands, and opened his mouth to say something only to snap it shut as the driver called out, “climb in back and we’ll be off.” The springs of the driver’s seal creaked as he hauled himself up, the wood groaned and banged as the family started to climb in themselves.

I quickly tucked the dagger into the top of my pack which he took from me and held onto my hand, helping me up on the back step of the carriage. As I turned back to him, I sucked in a sharp breath as he pressed his lips to the inside of my wrist. With a coy, lopsided smile, he handed my pack and walking stick before I could react. “Have a safe journey everyone,” he said cheerfully, belying the intense look he gave me as his brows rose slightly with a subtle final nod as he backed away from the carriage.

I sat down hard as the carriage suddenly lurched forward under Mildred’s efforts putting distance between myself and Nildor before I could say another word to him.

_What the hell had that all been about?_

My thoughts bounced all over with everything that just transpired. As my hand drifted to my opposite wrist that still tingled with the sensation of Nildor’s kiss, I flushed as I caught the amused, knowing look from the woman seated opposite me. Beside her, her husband’s look was decidedly less than pleased. Whatever, it was none of his business.

We started off the journey in relative silence apart from the rhythmic clop of Mildred’s hooves on the road and the accompanying sounds of the harness and carriage in her wake. Far too quickly, the city of Winterhold faded from view as we started our slow descent following the road that circled around the east side of the mountain toward the wide mouth of the river, joining with the Sea of Ghosts, that I could see shimmering as a pale silver line in the distance. Without the protection of magic as at the college, the shrubs and wild plants were behind in their spring emergence, but everywhere I looked, the pale green blur of tender leaves tinted the scenery. And birds. Oh, I had forgotten how much I loved and missed the sounds of songbirds in the spring!

It didn’t take long before the child’s natural propensity for movement and curiosity reasserted themselves. She hopped off the bench from between her parents and leaned against the luggage stacked beside me, staring intently at me. “You’re pretty,” she declared.

“Thank you. So are you. I like your braids.”

I didn’t reach out to give them a tweak; I knew better. From interactions with the townsfolk and warnings from the students of the college, I knew that magic was tolerated by some, but highly distrusted by the majority of Nords. Sticking your hand out toward a stranger could be misinterpreted as an aggressive move, particularly if they distrusted magic, and the father looked like he was a very distrusting type. Didn’t matter that I didn’t have a lick of magic.

She pursed her lips together as she studied me. “My ma’s really good with braids,” she declared, “but your hair is too short.”

“I think you’re right.”

“Where are you going? We’re going to Windhelm… Good sons and daughters of Skyrim.” The last bit parroted in a deeper voice that I could only assume she learned from her father even if she didn’t know what it meant.

“Hedy,” the father’s voice came out in a rumbled bark, “don’t talk to strangers.”

In retrospect, I shouldn’t have done it. I should have read the mood better and resisted the urge, but I was already a bit short on patience with the lingering effects of my hangover and the sting of my separation from Nildor. I was irritated by his tone and my temper was always good at wielding the shovel to dig that little bit deeper into the shit as Daniel had always been fond of reminding me. “My name is Isana. And you’re Hedy. Now we aren’t strangers anymore.” I did resist the urge to stick my tongue out.

Hedy’s mother, Maygret, thawed a bit more as we travelled, I chatted with her and her daughter. Her husband, Haelin, was evidently not a fan and kept his conversations limited to his family or the driver. Our conversation was stilted as I had little that I could say about myself and Haelin shot warning glances whenever Maygret opened up about their move to Windhelm. Eventually we found what appeared to be a safe topic; vegetables and how to grow them in the harsh northern climate. At least, Haelin didn’t appear to object to it.

We ate lunch on the road, Maygret offered me some of her baked bread in lieu of my hardtack to go along with my bit of jerky, cheese and desiccated snowberries packed by the college kitchen staff. Long before the sun had disappeared over the mountains in the west, we stopped for the night on an open area along the river. Trees towered at our backs and blocked most of the wind coming from the north. It would be a chilly night camping out of doors as Nildor and the others had cautioned me, but we did have a tent packed in the carriage to sleep under.

I fished my pack and my bedroll from the carriage as Maygret did the same for her family while the men put up the tent, big enough at least for the passengers; the driver, Durgun, as he introduced himself, indicated that he’d sleep by the fire to keep an eye on the horse and the carriage. Haelin held open the tent flap for his wife and Hedy, who was bouncing around in excitement at the prospect of sleeping out of doors. The driver, smiling kindly at the child’s enthusiasm, returned to the fire to give the stew pot a stir before heading to Mildred to check on her. I shouldered my pack and tucked the bedroll under my arm and headed for the tent.

Haelin dropped the tent flap and stepped into my path with the pretense of heading to the fire. He banged into me with his shoulder as he passed, sending me staggering. If not for my cane, I certainly would have fallen. “Stay away from my family, Thalmor whore.” I reeled back as he spat a particularly gross glob of spittle at my feet.

“Haelin!” Maygret exclaimed as she ducked out of the tent in time to witness the altercation.

“She looked plenty cozy with that pointed-ear bastard in Winterhold.”

I found my voice. “I am nobody’s whore and he isn’t Thalmor.”

He shrugged. “They’re all Thalmor deep down, which makes you naïve at best, a traitor at worst.” He sneered. “You even sound like them.”

I realized that I must have developed an accent as I spent most of my time learning the language from Nildor. “I’ll have you know that I’ve been recovering from a long illness that required me to relearn to speak. He was kind enough to help.”

“Kind enough to bend you to their cause, you mean.”

His hand closed around the haft of his axe, pulling it from his belt, as he took a step in my direction. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up in alarm; the dagger Nildor gave me was going to be a useless defense against the Nord, who had at least a hundred pounds and extra foot of height and reach on me, not to mention the probable years of experience fighting. Durgun walked around the corner of the carriage and made an abrupt U-turn when he spotted Haelin standing in front of me with his bared weapon—no help from there. _Coward._ I took a step back, my eyes darting frantically to find a way to escape.

Hedy chose that moment to emerge from the tent. “Papa!” She glanced between her father and me with a child’s uncanny instinct that something was very wrong. “Papa?” 

I would have closed my eyes in relief—surely, he wouldn’t kill me in front of a child—but I was too afraid to take them off the threat in front of me.

“Haelin! You’re scaring everyone!” Maygret stepped in front of him, pressing her hands to his chest to stall him. “She says she is not Thalmor!”

He brushed his wife aside roughly and took another step toward me, teeth bared in an aggressive grin. He liked that I was scared.

Maygret pulled Hedy to her wrapping her arms around the little girl’s head and face. “Haelin, if you strike her down—and in front of our child, no less—that makes you no better than them.”

That finally gave him pause. His eyes flickered to his wife and the now-howling child before returning to mine. “Mind what I said: stay away from my family.”

To my relief he returned his axe to his belt, I jerked my chin down in a stiff parody of a nod. I stumbled back to a tree stump behind me, sitting down before my wobbling legs finally collapsed, and released the breath I didn’t realize I had held.

Supper was a tense affair and I barely managed to swallow more than a mouthful or two of the stew. I’m sure it was probably a culinary delight, but it was little more than ashes to my palate, and I struggled not to vomit with nerves. I took some of my tincture to try to calm the frantic fluttering of my heart that made dark spots dance before my eyes. The last thing I needed was to pass out in the presence of an axe-wielding lunatic. He sat honing his axe after he ate, making an obvious show to check the sharpness of the edge as he worked.

Maygret bundled up a sleepy Hedy and retired to the tent.

Durgun banked the fire and left to attend Mildred.

I sat at the fire alone with Haelin, who lingered for a few minutes, staring at me, before he too got up and headed to the tent. I rolled out my bedroll and lay down with a sigh, letting my eyes fall shut.

_What if he got it into his head to cut off_ my _head in my sleep?_ My eyes popped open at the horrifying thought and I didn’t dare close them again.

The last time I had camped out of doors had been with Daniel and Michael before the world had gone to shit. We’d all laugh about me bringing a separate tent so they could have some privacy but then we’d all wake up in a puppy pile wrapped up in dew-dampened blankets before a dying fire. Those were happier memories. This was not going to be one of them.

I propped myself up against a log on the far side of the fire from the tent. I was thankful for the coat and bedroll Nildor had insisted upon; I curled up with both and pulled the hood of my cloak up over my head as I clutched the dagger he had given to me to my chest. Were all Nords going to behave that way toward me? The people at the college, be they Nord, Breton, Redguard, Mer, or Argonian had been nothing but accepting of me; was that because, they too as magic users, were other?

I blinked rapidly at the sting in my eyes, telling myself that it was just the smoke from the fire. Tomorrow would be better. We’d get to Windhelm and I would never see Haelin again. Tomorrow would be better, it had to be, because today was not the most auspicious start to my journey across Skyrim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellllllooooo!?! Is anyone out there?  
>   
> 


	13. Chapter 13

The rest of the trip to Windhelm, which mercifully lasted only another six hours behind the plodding steps of Mildred, was decidedly uncomfortable. Even Hedy picked up the oppressive mood of her father and sat quietly tucked up against her mother with only the occasional utterance for something to eat or drink. Not wishing to instigate anything with the bloodthirsty Nord, I kept my eyes averted and fixed on the countryside we passed. 

The river began to narrow gradually as we moved along toward the city, along the edges I could see clusters of large walrus-like creatures that barked at each other as they lazed in the Spring sun. They were not the only creature I spied as we travelled; numerous small critters busying themselves in the bushes and undergrowth, squirrels, rabbits mottled white and brown with their spring shed, a pair of foxes leaping on each other in a mad game of chase, and even a large wolf on the opposite bank that watched our passage before trotting calmly off into the woods.

As we followed the river road, the grey organic shape of the mountain gave way to a more linear shape of the distant city walls. I had read about Windhelm in my exploration of the college’s library. It was an ancient city with a bloody history, and if the rumours were correct about a pending civil war, more violent chapters were about to be added. I studied the high walls as they grew closer; I still struggled with cognizant dissidence that this city—that all of this world—had newly risen and aged while I slept, that I was now more ancient than they were. I sometimes wondered which had aged better.

The scream of gulls caught my attention as we rounded the final turn of the road to the city. The distinctive smell associated with docks; rotting fish, tar, and wood hit us as did the noise of a busy harbour. Large wooden ships, bigger than I had expected, rocked and bumped against the docks as Argonians hurried back and forth porting cargo between the ships and warehouses set into the walls of the great city.

This was Windhelm, the City of Kings.

Durgun slowly steered Mildred through the traffic, passing the warehouses, docks, and a large set of wooden doors through which I could see people going about their day. We paused to let Haelin and family out, much to my great relief, and then we continued. It seemed odd and of poor planning to have carriages driving through the dock area, but there were only stairs and a narrow ramp, no bigger than for a handcart or two, leading from the docks to the city proper. I quickly realized that we were an exception, rather than the norm, as we drove over a small bridge dwarfed by a much larger one overhead and finally emerged on the other side of the river where the livery stood. 

“Here ya go.” Durgun said drawing Mildred to a stop. He hopped off his seat and started unloading the carriage box of the remaining cargo, which apparently including me.

“What? Wait! This isn’t Markarth!”

“Nope, it isn’t.”

“But I’m supposed to go to Markarth.”

He nodded. “I don’t go to Markarth. Just Winterhold to Windhelm and back with supplies for my son’s forge. His missus gotta fourth on the way so I take passengers for a bit of extra coin for them.”

“But—” I looked around in alarm. The livery stable was bustling with workers moving around with brisk efficiency looking after the stabled animals, sending mounts out with riders, and accepting others as they arrived. However, there were no other carriages present besides Durgun’s. “The college arranged for me to go to Markarth.”

“Sure did.” He pulled my trunk off the cart and set it inside the livery doors. “Alfarinn will be takin’ you the rest of the way. Go on up through the city gates. Across the square is an inn, Candlehearth Hall. You can’t miss it. Tell Elda Early-Dawn you’re for the Markarth carriage. She’ll get you a room on the cheap for the night and wake you in time on the morrow.” He followed my gaze as I eyed my trunk. “That’ll be safe there. I’ll see it onto Alfarinn‘s rig when he arrives. Unless you want to pay one of the urchins to carry it back and forth for you.”

Right, Tolfdir had told me that the carriage to Markarth was from Windhelm, I had forgotten in all the _excitement_ of the past few days.

I chewed on the inside of my cheek considering my options. I didn’t have an abundance of money to spend unnecessarily and Durgun said it would be safe. It wasn’t like there were riches contained within the plain trunk, just clothes and the odd book I wasn’t carrying on me. I nodded reluctantly hoping I wasn’t making a mistake.

Tying my bedroll securely to my pack like a good little camper and then shouldering it, I wished Durgun farewell and headed up the long-arched stone bridge that crossed the river to the city. Unlike the bridge at Winterhold, the Windhelm bridge was broad enough for two carriages or carts to pass each other and was well maintained. I passed under the guard tower, or guard house—I’m not sure what the proper term for it was—that spanned the bridge and could see the massive wooden doors embedded in the city’s walls, standing open, below a series of faded blue banners decorated with an outline of a bear’s head. Guards walked along the tops of the walls and three stood clustered together at one side of the doors watching everyone that passed by. While I knew that nearly everyone was armed one way or another, the weight of Nildor’s dagger bumping my leg through the pocket of my open coat, felt inconspicuously obvious but it drew no alarm from the guards nor anyone else.

Focused entirely on whether I was about to be arrested for my concealed weapon by the guards I had just passed, the shout in front of me drew me up short in surprise. A man, Nord by the look of him, stood aggressively in front of a Dunmeri woman hurling abuse and insults at her. His companion stood to her right, silently threatening, and cutting off her route to escape. People walked past, either ignoring them entirely or yelling a word or four of encouragement to the Nord.

It wasn’t right what they were saying. It wasn’t right that no one, not even the nearby guards, were putting a stop to it.

I veered in their direction and as I did so, my eyes caught on the weapons hung from the belt of the loud Nord. The fresh memory of Haelin standing over me with his axe reared up before my mind’s eye, cutting off my words of protest before they could be brought forth, as effectively as a hand wrapped around my throat. My feet faltered… and I turned away, bowing my head in shame. Guilt clawed at me for being such a coward, but it didn’t stop me from averting my eyes and continuing to the inn. 

The inn was moderately busy for the mid-afternoon. Somewhere behind the massive fireplace, flanked by a staircase to the right, a musician strummed on an instrument as a counterpoint to the drone of conversation and the odd bark of laughter. A long counter ran along the left side of the room, behind which an older woman moved back and forth between customers with a long-practiced efficiency. I hadn’t lingered at the door for long when she waved me over, eyeing my pack slung over my shoulder and walking stick in hand.

“What can I get you?” she asked briskly.

“I’m taking the carriage to Markarth tomorrow. Durgun said to speak to Elda—”

She interrupted with a nod. “You be wanting an evening meal too?”

“Oh. Yes, please.”

“Food’s not ready yet. Drinks available any time.” She paused for a second and looked me over once more as I shifted my weight. “I suppose you’ll want to drop your pack in your room?”

She swiped her cloth over the counter, swatted at a greedy hand reaching over the counter, and led me briskly to a closed door that she pushed open. “Dinner’s at seven. Someone will wake you in the morning.”

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and left me there in the doorway. It was a tiny room, tucked under the stairs, with little more than a bed, a chair, and a diminutive washstand. There was no wardrobe to hang my coat, but a single row of wooden pegs driven into the wall opposite the bed. While one could complain about the lack of comfort—and later in the evening, the noise—at least you couldn’t find fault with the cleanliness. I dropped my pack on the bed along with the dagger, hung up the coat on a peg, and looked around at a loss of what to do next with the three hours until dinner.

I didn’t feel all that enthusiastic about wandering around the city and chance running into Haelin, although I knew in a city of this size, it was a remote possibility at best, not to mention that he was likely too busy getting his family settled to be out wandering himself. Still, the altercation with him followed by the incident I witnessed at the gates left me feeling deeply uneasy about venturing out on my own.

I yawned; my jaw creaking with the force of it. Perhaps a nap would give me a fresh perspective. I certainly was lacking in sleep after the tense, wakeful night I just had, and I couldn’t help but get mired in the mindset of doom and gloom when I was stressed and overtired.

Upon inspection, there was water in the tin pitcher sitting in the bowl of the washstand. Suddenly a wash followed by a snooze sounded like the best plan ever. I had only just started pulling my tunic over my head when the door opened and slammed shut with a muffled feminine “sorry!”. I dragged the chair over and jammed the back under the door latch since there was no bolt or lock to be found. Feeling mostly confident in my makeshift lock, I quickly bathed and redressed, before flinging myself down onto the straw mattress, too tired to care how the dagger’s hilt poked me in the ribs.

Thump…

Thump…

Thump…

The darkness echoed with the rhythmic thrum of a heartbeat. Or a steam engine.

My eyes popped open as I jerked from my dream to find… more featureless darkness. In a panic, I slapped my hands against my pockets, searching for the little light-enchanted stone. The room appeared around me in the pale blue glow of the magelight—bed, chair, washstand, coat on a hook, not the sleek nothingness of the statis pod. I breathed a sigh of relief as the remnants of my dream finally began to fade.

Thump…

Thump…

Thump…

I flinched and then chided myself for being ridiculous. It was just the heavy tread of someone going up the stairs beyond my little room. My stomach gave a loud growl. Right, food. Elda said that there would be supper; hopefully, I hadn’t missed it by sleeping too late.

As there was no lock on the door to safeguard my belongings, I shoved my pack to the back corner underneath the simple bed. If nothing else, a would-be thief might overlook it or not bother taking the few seconds to pull it out from under the bed.

The dagger taunted me where it lay on the bed. The hilt looked like the head of a stylized bird of prey with the shoulders and wings forming the guard which tapered down into the blade; I couldn’t say whether it was an eagle, a hawk, or even some creature I had yet to encounter. I picked it up and for the first time, really examined it. There were some symbols of some kind etched into the blade. I didn’t recognize the letterforms and could only guess what they meant. The scabbard had a feather pattern inlaid into the surface. It must have been gilded at some point, but with age and wear, the gold colouring only remained in the deepest impressions of the pattern leaving the rest of the surface leather a dark, matt grey. I pursed my lips as I considered the dagger; Nildor had cautioned me to keep the dagger on me, but I was simply stepping out of my room to have dinner. I pulled the pack back out from under the bed I shoved the dagger into the bottom covering it up with my clothes and sundries, then shoved the pack under the bed again. If dinner at the inn was to be hazardous, having a dagger that I didn’t know how to wield wasn’t going to make a bit of difference.

The inn had picked up business since my arrival. I waited patiently for Elda or her assistant to become free to order my dinner. I winced in sympathetic embarrassment for the young—at least I think he was young—Dunmer, who was experiencing sticker shock at the price of a drink he ordered. He quickly changed his mind and slid off the bar stool he was occupying and disappeared upstairs with his cheaper bottle of beer.

“Want your dinner now?” Elda asked with a nod in my direction. “Got fish stew, or grilled horker and potatoes.”

“Um…”

One of the serving girls plunked down a wooden platter in front of a big Nord sitting at the counter. A huge slab of meat, which reminded me of pork belly that hadn’t been cooked long enough to render the fat out, jiggled on the plate as a potato slid off the pile and fell to the floor. The Nord leaned over and deftly skewered the potato with his eating knife and popped it into his mouth.

“I’ll have the fish stew please,” I said with a shudder, quickly looking away as the Nord pulled something from his mouth.

“Bread?”

“Yes, and a pot of tea if you have it.”

I ignored the Nord’s snort of distain and comment about milk drinkers (I was drinking tea, not milk—what an odd thing to say), agreed upon the extra fee—a silver for the bread, two for the tea—and found myself a seat away from the traffic and worst of the noise. I had considered going upstairs like the Dunmer lad but changed my mind as the volume of the raucous singing from above increased. In any case, I was still quite tired and a little unsteady on my feet as a result; avoiding stairs just seemed like a sensible precaution. On the plus side, my little table gave me a clear line of sight to my room.

I didn’t linger over dinner; the fish stew was surprisingly delicious, but I had no need to sit and nurse multiple drinks like the majority of the inn’s clientele. Dawn would come early enough and with it, bring the start of the next leg of my journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a wee snippet of a cameo of Casien Yedlin from Chapter 5 of [The Slightly Tragic yet Very Inspiring Story of Casien Yedlin, Orphan, Scholar, and Mage](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14765744/chapters/34146794) by ArtemisMoonsong. If you haven't read Casien's story, I highly recommend it.


	14. Chapter 14

The trip to Whiterun did much to lighten my mood. Alfarinn was a cheery, chatty fellow who was happy to keep up the conversation even if I didn’t offer very much myself. He obviously knew the pair of Nords, an older man and a younger woman—clearly warriors from their wardrobe and weapons—that travelled with us to ask about their adventures and about the well-being of their companions. They were gregarious enough and apparently quite sane, much to my relief.

The final passenger was a Breton, who spent most of his time tucked into his hooded robe, occasionally muttering to himself and gesturing within his voluminous sleeves; neither the Nords nor Alfarinn seemed concerned about him and he seemed mostly harmless, so I paid him little attention. They took my relative silence in stride, mistaking it for shyness, rather than caution that my accented speech would result in the same vitriolic response I received from Haelin.

Every evening when we stopped for the night, the woman would take her bow and disappear into the woods returning no more than a half hour later with small game—rabbits, wild birds that were bigger than a grouse but smaller than a pheasant—already cleaned and ready for the fire. It was on the second night, returning from her hunt, that the woman approached me as I gathered wild onion shoots, I had spotted not far from the camp to go with our dinner.

“You’re not a warrior.”

She huffed a small laugh as I startled at the sudden voice, no doubt confirming some opinion she held. She stood on the other side of the little stream, her hands on her hips, with a brace of rabbits dangling from her belt. The warpaint on her face made it difficult to read her expression in the dappled light of the trees.

I gave a small laugh of my own. “No, I’m not.”

She cocked her head as she considered me. “A mage, then?”

“No.” I had the distinct impression of prey being measured by a predator—and found lacking.

She shifted her weight slightly, taking on a more relaxed pose while continuing to study me as I rinsed the sandy soil from the onions in the stream. “You’re going to Whiterun?”

“Markarth.”

“Hmm, a lawless city. Do you know how to defend yourself?”

“My friend gave me a dagger…”

“Do you even know how to use it?” she asked, interrupting.

I stood up quickly as she hopped across the stream toward me, trying not to make it obvious to her that my sudden change in elevation made me dizzy. I grasped my walking stick firmly, hoping that I would not need it to fend her off.

She stopped a few feet from me and nodded. “Your instincts serve you well, but instincts will only alert you to danger. You should come to Jorrvaskr when we get to Whiterun. You’re no candidate to be a Companion but my shield-siblings could teach you how to defend yourself. Even old Tilma can protect herself.”

Without waiting for my reply, she brushed past me heading back to the camp. “Don’t linger, there are dangers in the woods that wouldn’t hesitate to take a soft morsel like you.”

I let out a ragged breath letting my shoulders slump as I leaned against a tree. Did everyone outside of the walls of the college think of nothing but killing each other? Perhaps everyone inside the walls did as well; I simply failed to ask the right questions. One thing was certain, I was not going to step foot inside of this your-something-or-other. Despite the huntress’ assurances that her friends could teach me to defend myself, I had the distinct impression that I would be little safer than a cotton-tailed rabbit walking into a den of wolves. 

Continuing our descent into the foothills surrounding Whiterun left me with an odd sense of déjà vu. I suppose it was possible that Daniel and I had passed through the area or one similar on our way to the facility. Yisra and the others said that it had taken them several days to transport me to Winterhold from where they had found me, so I was theoretically within the same region. I looked around intently for something familiar, something that persisted that I could grasp onto like a thread to my old life, not that I could really expect any landmarks to remain after the initial disaster and subsequent passage of time. I had yet to see the slightest remnant from my own time, but perhaps the researcher in Markarth would have something they found in the ruins.

In any case, the countryside; the rock studded foothills, the transition of conifers to the varieties of deciduous trees and shrubs shivering with unfurling green of Spring, and in the distance, rolling plateaus cut into farms and grazelands, made my fingers itch for paper and pencil to sketch what I could see. Unfortunately, I had no such things on me. In my mad rush to learn as much as I could about this new world that I found myself in and the constant nagging worry about survival, the simple pleasure of sketching had entirely slipping my mind. With the leisurely pace that we travelled at, I found myself with time on my hands.

We rolled down the hill, the wheels rumbling on the rough cobbled road that appeared before us, wending its way around the curves of a narrow river that followed the city walls on one side, and farms—and from the smell of fermentation on the air—a brewery, on the other. Voices called out in recognition and greeting, which Alfarinn and the two warriors returned with the same enthusiasm.

The carriage hadn’t even pulled to a stop in front of the livery outside of the walled city before the two warriors had shouldered their packs and weapons and dropped off the back of the carriage with a quick parting thanks to the driver.

“Remember what I said!” the woman called out to me.

I nodded, with no plans to follow through with her invitation.

Out of earshot, the older warrior said something to her then looked over his shoulder in my direction before bursting into laughter.

Yeah, _definitely_ _not_ taking her up on the invitation.

The Breton, likewise, picked up his own pack and muttered a word or two in Alfarinn’s direction before he too, followed the warriors to the city.

“We’ll leave at dawn,” Alfarinn told me as he unhitched the horse from the carriage. “There are two inns, the Bannered Mare up at the city square, or the Drunken Huntsman by the gates, if you’re looking for something cheaper.” He gave the horse an affectionate pat and turned back to me. “Skulvar, the stable owner, has a spare bed he lets out to passengers travelling through, if you prefer. Won’t cost the same as the inns, but you’ll need to get your own dinner.”

I nodded. “That’ll be fine. I’ll stretch my legs and get a meal, then return for the night.”

With that decided, I shouldered my own pack and strolled up the road toward the city. The walls weren’t nearly as intimidating as the walls of Windhelm. Layers and layers of field stone, like the fences I had seen in television shows about Europe, looked like they grew in place as part of the country-side instead of chiseled slabs of stone defiantly enforcing their presence. Wooden sentry posts punctuated the top of the walls in what I assumed were strategic vantage points. Beyond the walls, I could see the wooden tops of buildings. Simple roof lines in the lower levels of the city gave way to more ornate ones with carved central beams depicting animals, and above that, a massive balconied building that could only be the residence of the jarl. The view from that height must have been spectacular.

I was about to pass under a gateway when a most curious and colourful display set outside the walls, caught my eye. A small cart stood the side of a cluster of tents; the cart with its faded, peeling red and gold paint had seen better days much like the patched tents, but the whole scene gave off a sense of cheerful energy. But the people, the people, stopped me in my tracks.

They were cats.

Not furry little house or feral cats, but bipedal cats. They had feline faces, clawed hands and feet, and tails, but they stood on legs like the races of man and Mer—and Argonian—and were dressed and armed just as the same.

I’ll admit that I stood stock-still and stared.

The closest one, sitting cross-legged in front of a tent, noticed my attention and called out, “move along, shaveskin—we’re causing no trouble.”

They talked! I think my jaw fell open.

By this point, they had all noticed my gawking and stood watching me with various expressions that I couldn’t completely read, although from the body language some seemed nervous while others defensive. The seated one got up and moved toward me. “This one thinks you’ve never seen Khajiit,” he mocked. “Have you lived under a rock?” When I still didn’t reply, his whiskers twitched in annoyance or amusement, I couldn’t tell. “Cat got your tongue?”

His question was so unexpected considering his race that it snapped me out of my daze and I laughed at the absurdity of it. I gave my head a little shake to collect my wits. “Something like that.”

He was cream in colour with a pattern of darker stripes like a tiger throughout his coat. His broad ears were tufted, with the left one sporting three gold rings piercing the outside edge. He also had a mane of sorts, braided back between his ears and down his back. He wore a simple vest and pants, patched and weathered like much of their belongings, but the vest was liberally decorated with beads, feathers, bits of shell, and the odd coin, drilled and stitched to the fabric.

His ears tipped sharply back, and I snatched my hand back, flushing with embarrassment that that I had reached out, unaware, to touch his fur without thought or permission. “Oh! I’m so sorry! That was terribly rude of me.”

His ears perked in surprise. He folded his hands (paws?) together and bowed, “this one accepts your apology.”

The other Khajiit, apparently deciding from his demeanour that I meant no harm, returned to whatever activities they had been doing when I stopped to gawk. They continued to send wary glances in our direction.

“You said something about causing trouble?”

He hissed in disgust. “The guards will not allow our caravan in the city to trade.”

“Why?”

“They say, noble Khajiit, are nothing but pickpockets and thieves.”

I didn’t know for certain, but he sounded rather coy in his response. Risking that I’d have to offer another apology if I were wrong, I played along, “and are you?”

His whiskers twitched upwards. I think he was pleased. “Khajiit are what is needed to survive.” He repeated his earlier obeisance. “Who are we to question the talents the great Rajhin gifted upon us?”

A fair enough answer, certainly one that I had pondered often enough for myself.

“Um, I was on my way into the city…” I said thumbing over my shoulder. “Can I…is there any way I can help?”

“You were going to the merchants in the city?” I nodded. “If you have coin to spend, we’d be humbled if you considered our wares. This one’s name is Ma'dran. Please, come sit and see what we have to offer.”

Before I knew it, I was seated cross-legged on a tufted silk cushion with a cup of hot tea— sweetened enough to make my teeth ache (Nildor would have loved it)—close at hand while an array of weapons, bits of leather and metal armour, jewelry of various quality, a myriad of small bottles and vials containing everything from perfume to poison, and finally a collection of mundane items, including lockpicks—the Khajiit gave me an exaggerated wink—placed on the tanned hide for my perusal. The weapons I disregarded immediately; I already had a dagger that I didn’t know how to use, I didn’t think the sword or one of the bows to be any more help, _thank you very much_.

As I perused the offerings, one of the other khajiit brought over a platter of grilled meat on skewers and flat bread, crispy and tender, right from the rock they baked upon. It was a tasty meal, if oddly sweet. Did these people put sugar on everything?

“Do you see nothing of interest?”

I carefully wiped my fingers. “You have some very nice things…” I ran my fingers over a pretty blue shell necklace—cunningly carved into flowers and leaves—that had caught my eye, “but what I’m really looking for is a book, a journal—paper and pencil, charcoal—something I can sketch plants…”

“Sketch…plants?”

“Yes, I love green and growing things. I’d like to record what I find as I travel.”

“Hmm… S'bassa where did those fine tomes end up?”

The addressed khajiit scratched at his ear. “Fine tomes? Oh you mean the water-stained books! They’re in the kindling box.”

“Foolish ja’khajiit! Go watch the perimeter for wolves.” Ma’dran growled in disgust at the other khajiit’s lack of business acumen. “A moment of your indulgence.” He got up and returned a few moments later with four books in various states of disrepair, placing them before me.

The book in the best condition had very tightly written text leaving hardly any white space; drawing on the pages to obscure the words seemed a shame as well as an exercise in frustration. Two books, while the ink had faded nearly to obscurity, were crumbling to the touch, and shedding their pages like a tree shed leaves in the autumn. The final book, whilst having the fewest pages, rode the fine line of being too damaged to read the text which had faded to a mellow ochre, but not damaged enough to have the pages fall out or disintegrate with handling.

“This one.”

“A fine choice. Fifty gold.”

I choked. “Fifty gold? A minute ago it was kindling! Ten gold.”

We haggled back and forth; rather than discouraged with the transaction Ma’dran seemed pleased that I didn’t accept the first price. In the end, my pocket was thirty gold lighter but I had the book, a tiny bottle of ink and a quill pen (the feather end was broken but the nib was fine), a stick of charcoal, and the shell necklace.

“A fine deal, and well negotiated,” he said with a wink. “We’ll have a drink to conclude our business.” He pulled out a small bottle from the inside of his vest and poured a dollop of liquid into my tea, then into his own.

“What is it?”

“A distillation of moon-sugar. Very beneficial before bed for a good night’s sleep.”

I gave it a sniff, noting the sweet fragrance of sugar and alcohol, not unlike Cachaça or even a light rum. It just went to show that no matter how many times civilization rose and fell, someone always found ways to make alcohol out of pretty much everything and anything that grew.

I took a sip and nodded to myself; the flavour was unusual but not unpleasant. I took another sip enjoying the pleasant warmth that curled through my limbs leaving me feeling content and relaxed.

My khajiiti host raised his cup in a toast, “may you journey to walk on warm sands.”

I don’t recall my short walk back to Skulvar’s house nor collapsing onto the hard pallet set aside for me. I do recall vivid dreams of tea parties, starring Nildor as the Mad Hatter and Khajiit, blinking in and out of view, grinning at me from the tree branches, while the two moons sailed through rippling colours in the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading; your comments, kudos, et al give me joy (and keep me inspired to write)!
> 
> I'm bending lore a bit here—at least I think I might be—as skooma is listed as a beverage and then described as crystals that are smoked, so for this purpose, I’m proposing that there is a liquid version similar to rum, but a narcotic version distilled with nightshade to create the crystallized, smoking form.
> 
> Did you recognize Isana's travel companions? Two of them are pretty easy, but the third is probably a bit harder... maybe. 🌹


	15. Chapter 15

Whether the khajiit had truly been honorable or I had simply been lucky, I found myself no lighter for coin in the morning when I readied my things to continue my travels than I had been after negotiating with Ma’dran for my few purchases. In fact, I appeared to have a surplus of goods as I found a carved amulet, made from shell and tiny bits of silver, stitched to the cover of my pack. I don’t know what it meant, why or even how it had appeared, but I couldn’t imagine that the khajiit—for who else could have put it there—would have meant me any ill will by it.

We set out from Whiterun under fair weather; Alfarinn, me, and a half dozen young chickens along with a selection of supplies all destined for a farming community we would be passing along our way to Markarth. No other passengers joined us. Too busy, Alfarinn said, with getting crops sown and livestock birthed to be travelling, which was why his services were often pressed into transporting goods instead of passengers during this time of year.

That didn’t mean that the roads were empty, by any means. We swung to the north as we left Whiterun, hugging the foothills of the mountains there to keep to the ancient paved roads, that were frequented by hunters, travelling merchants, and occasionally soldiers, first dressed in faded blues and cobbled together armours, then later in red with polished and matching armour. Alfarinn didn’t say anything to me to indicate his allegiance but I travelled with him long enough to notice the easy way he would acknowledge the Stormcloaks versus the stiff nod and averted eyes when we passed Imperials.

But he positively seethed over the Thalmor.

We came across a small escort party—if one could call it such based on how they handled their prisoner—just before we turned south to our destination of Rorikstead. He spotted them at a distance and drew the horse to a halt.

“Why are we stopping?”

He hopped off the carriage and went to the horse, checking the harness then picked up a foot as he answered me. “Thalmor. Probably headed to Northwatch. Poor bastard.”

“Northwatch?”

“They say its just a small garrison for the Thalmor but it’s more than that. No one that enters there is ever seen again.”

“Can we do something? Help in some way?”

He barked a sharp laugh, climbing back onto his seat, “how and with what? Don’t be daft, girl.” He shook his head. “No, he’s in Arkay’s hands now, Oblivion take him.” He picked up the reins, gave the horse a cluck and a light tap with the reins to encourage it into a brisk trot. “Hopefully, they’ll ignore us but if not… keep your mouth shut.”

They didn’t ignore us. The poor horse nearly fell in the traces with the weight of the carriage behind him as his hooves skidded and sparked over the uneven cobbles in an effort to stop before running down the armoured soldier that had stepped abruptly into our path. One wore the dark, ornamented robes like Ancano’s, two others like the one holding the horse’s bridle wore gilded armour, and the final person was most definitely not an Altmer and was unquestionably their prisoner.

I couldn’t take my eyes off him with his bound hands and a gag tied over his mouth so tightly that the skin was pale above and below the cloth cutting across his face. That he had resisted at some point was evident by the bruises on his face and knuckles, and the blood stains on his filthy, torn clothing. But his eyes; they blazed with a fury that shouldn’t have surprised me knowing what Nords thought of the Thalmor. One of the soldiers shoved the prisoner to his knees roughly earning himself a growl from the man, and drew his sword—blue green like it was made of finely polished sea glass—holding it casually on the prisoner’s shoulder. I’m not sure if the threat display was for the prisoner’s benefit or ours. 

The robed one stepped alongside the carriage box, his hood pulled up shaded his face making little visible except for the grim line of his mouth. “State your business on these roads,” he demanded.

Alfarinn rested his elbows on his knees in a casual pose that belied his earlier tension. “Making my regular delivery of farm supplies to Rorikstead, Justiciar,” he tipped his head back in my direction, “then my passenger to Markarth.”

The hooded head of the Thalmor justiciar swivelled deliberately in my direction. For a moment, I had an uncanny sense of horror like the Ghost of Christmas Past was about to reveal my fate. The mer’s gaze finally settled on me. “What is your business in Markarth?”

My first inclination was to tell him that it was none of his, but I caught the cautionary look from Alfarinn from the corner of my eye. “I’ve been sent to assist Master Calcelmo with his research.”

The mer’s eyes narrowed. “Sent by _whom_?”

“The College of Winterhold.”

He pulled out a scrap of paper and writing implement from somewhere in the sleek folds of his robe. “Your name?”

I hesitated. What business was it of the Thalmor who I was?

“Your name,” he repeated impatiently.

“Isana—hey, what are you doing!?!” The chickens squawked as the soldier at the end of the carriage pulled two from the cages. “Those aren’t yours!”

The soldier looked me dead in the eye and wrung the necks of the chickens, letting them dangle lifelessly from his gauntleted fist.

“How dare—” Alfarinn gripped my shoulder and pulled me roughly back down onto the bench as I started to rise, silencing me.

“You object to a small donation of dinner to those that keep you safe from the rapid dogs that would tear this province apart?” The Thalmor asked with a soft, silky voice that did nothing to cover the threat beneath it.

“Not at all, Justiciar,” Alfarinn answered calmly, his hand clenched more tightly on my shoulder. “You’re welcome to the poultry with our thanks.”

The justiciar nodded, satisfied with the appropriate response, and waved the soldier at the horse’s head away; my own interrogation forgotten or dropped. Alfarinn didn’t hesitate to urge the horse forward into a smart trot to put as much distance between us and the Thalmor before they had any thought to resume the questioning.

It was a good ten minutes at a brisk trot until the group was out of sight and out of earshot before he slowed the horse back to a steady walk and turned his attention back to me. “What were you thinking?” he hissed over his shoulder. “Of all the foolish… reckless…”

My shoulders crept up around my ears as he continued to scold me.

“They could have easily taken us into custody and then where would my family be?” he finished with a growl.

“I’m sorry. The theft caught me by surprise, and I protested before I thought about it. I didn’t mean…”

“Where you are going, you better ‘think about it’ before you wind up with a priest of Arkay praying over your corpse. Markarth is a dangerous place and not just because of the Thalmor presence there. Just keep your head down and your mouth shut!” He swivelled back around and clucked to the horse to pick up the pace again.

I sat on my seat, shaking and blinking back tears, as I came down from the adrenaline from the confrontation with the Thalmor and the blistering tongue-lashing Alfarinn handed me. Ever since leaving the college, I seemed to be constantly putting my foot into my mouth or stepping across lines of social convention that I wasn’t aware of. Not for the first time, I wished that I were back in the conservatory working side by side with Nildor rather than traipsing across the country into the unknown without a friendly hand to guide me.

It wasn’t until we turned off the main road and the town of Rorikstead steadily grew on the horizon that Alfarinn broke the silence once more. “Look, I’m sorry I shouted. You seem like a nice person, if… naïve…” I winced as his words echoed those of Haelin. “I’d hate to hear that something happened to you.

“Just remember that while the jarl rules Markarth, his strings are pulled by the Thalmor and the Silver-Blood family. Cross either of those and you’ll end up dead or in Cidhna mine—” his eyes glanced at my cane propped against my pack, “which would amount to the same thing in the end.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

He shrugged. “’course it does, but that’s the way of the world, isn’t it? The powerful will do whatever they need to maintain their power. Not much to do for it by people like us.”

I didn’t know how to answer him; I remembered the protests and rallies, hundreds of thousands of people calling out for the same thing during our final weeks and months. It started the slow turn of the wheel toward change, toward hope for all of us not just those with money and fame to buy their way to salvation. When the EMP hit, it silenced our voices, isolating us from each other, stripping away the gains we had made. Those with power retook the ground they relinquished during the protests, and then, they took even more.

Apparently, some things never change.

We spent the one night in Rorikstead after delivering the supplies—minus the two chickens—to the farmers there. With their evening chores attended to and children tucked into beds, the residents of the village gathered at the inn to hear what news Alfarinn brought to them.

A few suspicious glances from the older members of the village were thrown my way, but I was quickly forgotten, which suited me just fine. The innkeeper’s son handed me a mug of mead and platter of food with an open smile. He seemed inclined to stay and flirt with much of the same rushed eagerness of Rundi, but he too, was quickly distracted in favour of listening to the news. It was quite evident that there was no love of the Thalmor nor the Empire to be had by the folk of Rorikstead based on the grumbling and posturing I observed as Alfarinn shared what he could.

In the morning, we backtracked along our previous day’s passage, heading north through Karthwasten instead of Alfarinn’s preferred southern route. I gathered from his grumbling that the peoples living in the mountains around Markarth had been whipped up into a murderous frenzy over the theft of sword that had some cultural or historical importance to them. The theft perpetuated by some unknown party with “grandiose ideas of destiny”—the innkeeper’s words—had resulted in several travellers being killed or left for dead on the roads through the mountain passes. Guards had been dispatched from the city to deal with the problem, but the few that made it back alive told fantastical stories of attacks by men with their hearts carved from their chests.

I obviously still struggled with parts of the language because they must have been speaking in metaphor; they must have meant the ruthlessness of the attackers, not the absence of the essential organ. I had witnessed some remarkable things done with magic whilst at the college but surely, it couldn’t keep a man alive when his heart had physically been removed? My continued difficulties with my own heart would suggest otherwise.

Our diversion through Karthwasten cost us nearly three days putting us well behind schedule for the time of year, much to Alfarinn’s disgust; he did pride himself on his punctuality and got paid the same whether the trip took ten days or fourteen.

I was just relieved to be at the end of the journey.

Every bone and muscle in my body ached from the combination of sleeping on the ground and sitting on the wooden bench of the carriage as it bumped and jolted over every uneven bit of the road travelled.

Markarth appeared almost abruptly as we followed the bend in the road through the mountainous valley. Before us, pale grey stones emerged, cutting a swath across the valley floor, and behind that, I could see the same grey stone of the city climbing the mountain face. The city, Alfarinn said, ran on blood and silver, but all I could see was the dull golden colour of the rooftops; curiously tiled with rounded tiles of what looked to be brass or some similar metal. Very odd.

A man wielding a pitchfork piled with dirty straw stepped out from the shadow of the livery, lifted a hand to shade his eyes as we rolled to a stop before him. “Well met Alfarinn,” he called out. “We expected you days ago. Thought mayhap the Reachmen might’ve got you.”

Alfarinn scowled as he hopped down from his seat. “Nah, Mralki warned me. Went round by Karthwasten.”

Another man, with a pair of large hounds, stepped out from the building next to the stable at the commotion. “Got a passenger with you this time,” he nodded in my direction.

“Yeah, she’s here as an assistant to Calcelmo.” He lifted her small trunk from the carriage box and placed it on the steps.

“Huh,” the first said, eyeing the trunk and the walking stick in my hand. “I suppose you’ll be wanting that brought up to Understone Keep?”

“Oh, that would be helpful, thank you!” I was pleasantly surprised as I hadn’t honestly expected them to offer and thought I’d have to find someone to carry it for me.

“That’ll be two gold,” he said holding his palm out. _Well, so much for that._ He nodded, satisfied when I dropped the coins into his hand. “Head on up. Banning, here, will bring it up for you after we’ve had our lunch.” He turned away and called back over his shoulder, “Alfarinn, you joinin’ us?”

“I’m coming.” Alfarinn turned to me and tugged on his forelock. “I’ll be back this way in about a month’s time if you’re planning on returning to the college.”

“A month?” I was a little shocked, although if I had thought about it, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course, he wouldn’t just sit in Markarth cooling his heels until I was ready to return; he had a family to feed that depended on his business and I didn’t have the coin to pay him to wait. “Right. A month.” I swallowed hard at the prospect.

He gave me a sympathetic smile. “Good luck. And remember what I said.”

Right. _Keep my head down and my mouth shut_. I smiled stiffly to him before we parted ways. I made my way across the scrubby yard worn flat from traffic and made my way up the steps. Two guards in full armour, long polearms resting against their respective shoulders and swords at their waist, their faces obscured by closed helmets stood at the top flanking a huge set of stone and brass doors. I could feel their eyes on me, assessing the threat I posed and finding none, one spoke up:

“Welcome to Markarth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for following my story—your comments, kudos, subscriptions give me joy and helps keep the writing process moving forward when the muse goes awol. Hopefully the next chapter will not be so long to wrestle into existence! Stay safe out there you crazy kids.


	16. Chapter 16

The doors of the city closed behind me with an odd metallic ring, sending a shiver through me at the ominous tone. It sounded like a death knell. I shook my head at my own melodramatic thoughts; if I went looking for trouble, I would surely find it.

Before me was a large open market set with multiple vendors selling everything from foodstuffs to weapons. The market was quite busy despite the midday hour or because of it, I really didn’t know what was normal for these cities but it was evident that the citizens took the opportunity to mingle with their neighbours before heading back to their occupations. The people didn’t look at me with the same suspicion as those in Rorikstead had, which also meant that it was harder to get anyone’s attention to seek directions.

It wasn’t difficult to determine what the main industry of Markarth was. The stink of burnt metal lingered in a blue haze over the lower level of the city. It seemed odd to have the mine and smeltery situated inside the walls trapping the pollution amongst the residents instead of outside where the mountain winds could blow it away. But then, Alfarinn did say that the mine was also the city’s prison, perhaps having the added security of the walls made sense to the city planners.

A loud voice declaring “the bloodiest beef in the Reach” startled me and I turned toward the source. Slabs of meat in peculiar cuts for beef were laid out on a wooden counter. True to his words, blood ran in rivulets from the surface, pooling in the grooves of stone below to the bloated delight of the flies. I recoiled at the sight. I’m not squeamish and had, by necessity, learned alongside Daniel to dress wild game and fowl, but there was something about the beef that just didn’t seem right. I looked up from the meat to the stall’s proprietor.

“Fresh meat, finest in Markarth,” he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Thank you, no,” I said with a shake of my head, quickly backing away.

I hurried across the market, making my way through the traffic of people that had started to thin out as people returned to their tasks, looking for a street sign or some indication which way to go with no success. The edge of the market opened into a nonsensical view of paths and set of stairs that seemed to go off in all directions with no rhyme or reason. Stunted junipers clung to the edges of the stone and a small—well I wouldn’t go so far to call it a river, but it was bigger than a stream—tumbled noisily down the mountain between the slabbed walkways.

I huffed a sigh. I supposed I could go up, but eyeing the rows and rows of stairs, I hated to waste the effort. Wouldn’t a place called “Understone” be lower in the city? I just didn’t know which way to go.

I spotted a small girl running through the market with a small bundle in her hands to a tidy stall occupied by a Redguard woman. The woman smiled fondly at the girl who had the same thick dark hair; a mother and daughter likely, and someone that looked safer to approach for directions.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, hello! Are you looking for some jewelry, perhaps a silver necklace or a silver ring? Easy to wear and soft against the skin.”

“Uh, sorry, no. I was wondering if you could tell me how to get to Understone Keep?”

She appraised me with new eyes as the little girl circled me.

A light tug on my pack had me quickly looking over my shoulder; the last thing I needed was to get robbed, instead I found the little girl fingering the pendant the Khajiit had left me with.

“Is that silver?” she asked curiously.

“I don’t know.” As quick as a blink, she stuck her tongue out to the pendant.

“Adara! We don’t go around—licking—people’s possessions!”

Unfazed by her mother’s scolding, the girl looked thoughtful for a moment then declared, “silver, but sweeter than ours.”

The woman sighed and shook her head. “I apologize for my daughter. She will be a wonderful silversmith when she grows up, much to her grandmother’s delight… if her manners do not drive away any prospective customers first.” The girl grinned unrepentantly at her mother’s stern look and accompanied gesture to leave. “But you were asking about Understone Keep… it is at the top of the city where the rich and powerful can look down upon the rest of us.” She nodded her head up the stairs.

Surprised by her cynical remarks, particularly addressed to a stranger headed in that direction, I nonetheless thanked her and adjusted my pack, eyeing the stairs.

“Here I was apologizing for my daughter’s manners, and mine are no better,” she said with chagrin. “My apologies, the mood of the city has been… trying… as of late. Are you staying in the city long?”

“About a month, I think.”

“Well I hope you consider taking a piece of jewelry home with you; Markarth silver is second to none in all of Tamriel.”

She then proceeded to give perfect directions that placed me before the doors of the keep, once again guarded on both sides by armoured men. Unlike at the city gates; however, these guards were not so welcoming.

“What business do you have here?” one of the guards snapped out as I reached the top of the stairs, puffing from the exertion of the climb with sweat prickling along the back of my collar. My heart, too, was giving the odd little flutters that left me with a feeling of breathlessness. “Well then, speak up!”

“Rolf, give her a minute,” the other guard commented, eyeing me as I fumbled in my coat pocket for the tiny vial of nightshade tincture.

“Thank you,” I replied after a couple of moments had passed and the tincture had time to steady my heart. “I’m here to see Master Calcelmo.”

“He’s not accepting visitors,” Rolf barked. He adjusted his stance and looked past me to the city beyond; apparently, I had been dismissed.

“He’s expecting me.”

He turned his head and glared at me.

“I’ve been sent by the college, from Winterhold…”

His lip curled with a sneer on mention of the mages’ college as he advanced on me. “I don’t care if you’re the queen of the elves, go back…”

“Wait,” the other guard put his hand out to stall him, “you said you’re with the college?” I nodded. “Rolf, Aicanter had been back and forth from the stables earlier in the week about a visitor from the college. Supposed to have arrived three days ago.”

Rolf looked at me, “you’re late.”

“Yes, we had to go to around to Karthwasten…”

“Ah, Forsworn.” The guard waived me past Rolf and pushed open the door. “Don’t mind Rolf, city’s been a bit tense because of the upheaval with those folks,” he said quietly. “Go down that hall—mind the loose stones—and take your first right and up the stairs. You should find Aicanter and Calcelmo in their museum.”

I nodded my thanks.

“Hey, name’s Thaegen. If you ever need an escort into the city or just some company for the evening…” he gave me an appraising glance and eyebrow waggle, “come find me in the barracks.”

Mercifully, before I could come up with a reply, the doors fell shut between us.

He wasn’t kidding about the footing. For a place that was supposed to be home to the jarl and other esteemed visitors, the keep seemed in a perpetual state of disrepair and decay. The stone floor heaved and buckled in places with broken stones stacked haphazardly against the walls. Large cracks raced up the walls and broken pillars lay where they fell. There were no signs of any work being done to try to shore the place up. I don’t know if it was necessarily a blessing or a curse, but the halls were very well lit, shockingly by what appeared to be brass lamps fueled with gas jets. It was the most advanced bit of technology I had seen since waking up.

I followed the directions given and found myself before a set of carved brass decorated doors. A guard stood outside with his pike resting against his shoulder, more interested in picking at his teeth than my presence.

“Is this Master Calcelmo’s museum?”

The guard grunted in the affirmative. “Hey, you can’t go in there!” he protested when I pulled on the doors.

“I’m expected—”

“I don’t care; the wizard said no one goes in.” He leaned toward me, “you don’t want to annoy someone that can turn you into a skeever.”

I folded my arms and counted silently in my head. Why did everyone have to make it so difficult? “What do you suppose he’d do if the person he has been expecting for the last two weeks is turned away? A skeever might be a blessing.”

The guard looked at me then at the door. He shifted his stance and looked back to me, weighing his options. He growled. “Fine, sit there—” he pointed to a stone bench, “and don’t move.” He disappeared into the museum.

A few minutes later, the doors burst open for a tall, robed Altmer, followed by a chastened guard. The Altmer’s robes weren’t those of the Thalmor, but those like the mages within the college. His sleeves were ragged along the cuffs, stained with dust and machine oil judging from the odour.

“You’re here! You’ve arrived!”

“Are you Master Calcelmo?”

“No, no, I’m his nephew, Aicantar. I assist my uncle with his research, make sure he eats and rests when he forgets. And I’m conducting my own research into automatons,” he added defensively, like his own research was something that was always over-looked. “You must be Isana, the…” his eyes flicked to the guard who had resumed his place opposite the door. “The assistant from the college. We’ve been expecting you. Come, come,” he hooked his hand through her elbow, “my uncle will want to meet you immediately!”

Aicantar led me at a brisk pace back down the stairs and across the keep. If not for his hand on my elbow, I might have tripped over the rubble we skirted around. As it was, I had to remind him three times to slow down as his much longer legs outpaced my own tired ones.

We passed an area to our right that, from my quick glance, contained a throne sitting upon the top of a dais. Above it, a large banner with a stylized set of rams’ horns depicted in knotwork hung between shields and crossed weaponry. A few people mulled around the room, but they looked to be servants from their attire.

The corridor we followed dimmed significantly as we moved away from the central hall and I shivered with déjà vu. Before I could dwell on the prickling unease I felt, we exited into a huge cavernous space that echoed with the sound of water tumbling down the rocks somewhere out of sight.

“Uncle.” Aicanter called out to a robed figure bent over a work bench. Lanterns were set strategically to light the area set up on a balcony over the underground river. “Uncle! She’s arrived!”

The elder stood up, blinking in the gloom to refocus as we approached. He blinked once, twice, and a look of surprise crossed his face. “Oh! Did you get Arkay's blessing as I suggested? Did it work?"

Aicantar heaved a long-suffering sigh; I could practically hear his eyes rolling in his skull with his exasperation. “No, uncle. This is…” he waved his hand at me like it explained everything, “ _her_ … from the college.”

The old man grabbed my chin and turned my face to the light, squinting as he searched for something. “Are you certain?"

“Yes, uncle.” The younger pinched the bridge of his nose. “She’s the…” he glanced quickly over his shoulders, “ _Dwemer_.” He hissed the last word as if the stones were listening.

Calcelmo continuing to clutch at my face, jerked his head forward like a chicken eye-balling a bug in the grass, and staring at me far too close for comfort. “Hilloo, oo ur vell coom hur.”

I didn’t want to be impolite with these people I was going to be staying with, but I had had it with people grabbing at me. I jerked my chin out of his hand and took a step back, rubbing the impression of his fingers from my skin. “I don’t understand what you are saying.”

His face underwent the most interesting array of contortions from a severely furrowed look of confusion to the most rapturous delight and I realized that, subconsciously, I had recognized his words and had automatically replied in my own language.

“Doomer nuh are,” he said.

It was my turn to parse out his meaning, unaware that my hand had moved to grasp my ear. The elder mer chuckled—much to the apparent surprise of the younger—and drew my hand away. “Doomer,” he touched his fingertip to my mouth, “nuh are,” he repeated give a little tug and wiggle on his own ear.

It suddenly clicked: _Dwemer no ear._ He’d never heard the language spoken before!

“Can you read?” he asked eagerly. Without waiting for my reply, he grasped my wrist and started to tow me toward another table where broken fragments of stone and scrolls were laid out.

“Uncle? Isana has only just arrived, perhaps we should get her settled in before putting her to work?”

“Hmrph, I suppose so.” He grumbled, dropping my wrist, and waved his hand at the other mer. “I have too much to do to stop now. Nephew, get her settled in. We can continue after the evening meal.” We had been dismissed.

“I must apologize for my uncle,” Aicanter offered as we returned to the museum, “he doesn’t mean to be so… rude. He has a single-minded focus from which his reputation as the premiere expert on the Dwemer has grown, but it doesn’t always make him the most congenial person; that puts people off. He has in truth been quite excited about your arrival.”

I didn’t get a good look at the museum when I arrived, only short glimpses when the door had opened to admit the guard in and Aicanter back out. Now, as we walked through, there were glass covered display cases with bits of machinery, broken stones, corroded metal plates, and other paraphernalia. It all looked rather steam-punkish and I had the disquieting realization that I didn’t recognize any of it.

“Is that all you brought with you?” he asked, eyeing the pack on my shoulder.

“No. I have a small trunk that Banning is bringing up for me.”

Aicanter wrinkled his nose at mention of Banning. “I’ll inform the guard. We don’t need that man bringing the stench of his dogs into the museum.” He pushed through a door at the back of the museum. “We thought it best to put you in a spare room within our quarters. It’s not much…a servant’s…”

Noise from the museum side of the door interrupted him and he hurried away leaving me to investigate my new quarters. “Not much” wasn’t an exaggeration. The room had a stone shelf that served as a bed. At least, that’s what I assumed based on the stack of blankets and a thin pillow left there and no other viable option for sleeping other than the stone floor. I silently offered up thanks to Nildor’s suggestion of purchasing my own bedroll as I would undoubtedly be using it as an extra layer under the other bed covers.

The grand tour of my room resumed and concluded with several shelves carved into the wall for storage, a bowl and pitcher on a wooden table, and a cut metal oil lamp hung on a chain from a hook.

“Fugh! Remind me to speak with Raerek about replacing the guard,” Aicantar complained as he returned. “Far too permissive just because he covets one of Banning’s mutts.” He deposited the trunk on the end of the stone bed and headed to the door. “I’ll leave you to get settled. There’s a water box down the hall on the left if you want to freshen up. Oh! Before I forget,” he spun around and fished some slightly crumpled parchment from his pockets, “several letters have arrived for you.”

Letters? Who would have written to have had them arrive ahead of me?

I looked down at the small, neatly folded squares of parchment and smiled with delight upon recognizing the writing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, the muse is cooperating—no month's long gap between chapters... We'll see how long that lasts, lol!
> 
> I forgot to mention it last chapter, but there was a nod to Paraparadigm's wonderful fic "[Always Read the Fine Print](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20168293)" (highly recommended!). There is another, more obvious, nod in this chapter if you are familiar with that story. 😁
> 
> Thank you for your comments, kudos, subscripts, and simply the time spent reading my little story.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little NSFW-ish at the end of the chapter (after the third letter if you wish to skip that part)

It wouldn’t be until later in the evening that I was finally able to sit down and read the letters. I unpacked my little trunk and then succumbed to curiosity as to what the water box Aicantar mentioned was. I was keeping my fingers crossed in anticipation; I was looking for a chance to have a wash that didn’t consist of a rag in a cold mountain stream or cramming myself into a washtub that, despite my lack of height, was still too small to stretch out in.

I was surprised and beyond delighted to find out that the water box was, in fact, a working shower, big enough for a party of four. The ceiling was a sheet of brass punctured in perfectly tidy rows to create the largest rain shower head I had ever seen with deliciously hot water and enough pressure that it nearly swept me off my feet when it started. Luxury boutique hotels would have wept in envy.

I stayed under the water for as long as I dared, letting the water pound down upon my head and aching muscles, muscles that seemed to tremble to some unheard rhythm. I had no idea how much of a reservoir it had and didn’t want to be the one to deprive the rest of the keep of water, but I stayed long enough to prune my fingers. It’s amazing how something as simple as a good, hot wash can make you feel so much more yourself. Thoroughly clean for the first time in nearly two weeks, with fresh clothing in place of the road dusty, crumpled clothing I arrived in, I felt better equipped to handle whatever was before me.

I headed out of my tiny room and followed the sounds of meal preparation and the low murmur of voices to find Calcelmo seated at the table with a parchment unrolled across his empty cutlery, and Aicantar ladling out bowls from a pot hung over the fire. He looked up at my arrival, noting my still damp hair.

“Settled in? How did you like the water box?”

“It was wonderful. I really didn’t want to leave the shower.”

Calcelmo looked over at me with interest. “Shower? As with rain?”

I smiled, “yes. That’s what we called it.”

“Of course! It’s so obvious. And you had one of these… showers… yourself?”

“Yes, although mine wasn’t nearly as big.”

“Fascinating.” The scroll he had been reading rolled up, forgotten. “Did all Dwemer have these ‘showers’?”

Aicantar place a bowl of stew in front of the elder. “Uncle… perhaps now is not the best time to discuss Dwemer bathing habits,” Aicantar admonished with a weary voice.

“Hmm? Oh yes, yes. After dinner.” He dug into his bowl with barely a glance or offer of thanks.

Aicantar placed a bowl and pushed a platter of bread toward me. The stew, if one could call it that, was a grey and homogenous paste in appearance as I stirred the provided spoon through it. It looked like someone had boiled the crap out of a piece of meat then overthickened it with flour. I took a cautious taste and stilled my expression; it tasted much as it looked, lacking any seasoning, including salt. My throat suddenly closed on unshed tears as the memory of my final meal with Daniel jumped to the forefront of my mind. At least our final meal together had been tastier.

To distract myself from the memory, I glanced with hooded eyes around the cooking area and didn’t see any signs of herbs, no mortar and pestle for grinding spices, no fresh vegetables. “You don’t eat with the others in the keep?” I asked as innocently as I could; I didn’t wish to offend.

Calcelmo wrinkled his nose. “Nord food is unpalatable.”

I looked at the gluey paste before me with some irony and thought of the pastries, both savour and sweet, that Nildor enjoyed. If this meal was typical of Altmer cuisine, I could understand why his sweet tooth came to be.

“Perhaps I could introduce you to some of my favourite dishes while I’m here?”

“Dwemer cuisine? You remember this?” Calcelmo said excitedly, his spoon clattering loudly against the bowl.

“Yes, I would be happy to make some of those for you. If Aicantar doesn’t mind my presence in the kitchen,” I added. I really wasn’t offering for any other reason than self-preservation. Across from me, Aicantar looked faintly relieved.

The elder waived away my concerns. “He’d be fine with it and will help you get what you need.” He looked up from stirring his stew with a sudden thought. “Don’t buy from Hogni; his beef… is suspect, at best. Nephew, you’ll make sure?”

“Yes, uncle,” he replied with a huff. “I’ll make sure.” I was already beginning to recognize his tone of frustration as being considered little more than a housekeeper to his uncle.

Calcelmo said nothing further on the subject and the meal continued in relative silence except for a constant low-level thrum I could feel in my bones. The two mer didn’t seem to notice or pay any attention to it—perhaps it was something normal within the keep.

As much as I wanted the meal to come to its bland end, I dreaded when it finally did and he urged me to join him in the museum waiving off my offer to help clean up with a careless remark that Aicantar would take care of it.

The museum was filled with glass topped display cases, wooden tables and stone shelves, filled with miscellaneous pieces of metal, most of which looked like a very coppery coloured brass; gears, cogs, struts, and various pieces that I had no idea of their purpose. Weapons: bows and arrows, swords, daggers, were spread out of tables and hung in stands.

And then there were body parts. Not of the flesh and blood variety, but limbs, an arm here, a leg, even a head, of some sort of robot made from the same coppery brass as the weapons and pieces of minutia.

There were also gemstones the size of my fist encased in gyroscopic spheres, and long crystals that seemed to come in two varieties: milky white and a strange purply-black. I don’t know why, but the dark crystals made me feel very uneasy, like something crawling across my skin trying to get in. I stepped away from that display in favour of another filled with scraps of parchment.

“Ah, yes, come look at these diagrams and tell me what you make of them.” 

There were scraps of parchments, mostly what looked like engineering schematics for unknown equipment I had no clue as to their purpose. The writing on the parchments was faded to illegibility but I suspected that they had been mathematical formulas; they had the general flow of what I had seen Daniel write and there was something else vaguely familiar, something else niggled at the back of my mind when I examined them. There were also diagrams of orbits—what else could all the concentric circles be? There were no sketches or diagrams of anything botanical, so I moved on quickly with nothing to really keep my interest. I must have had da Vinci floating in the back of my mind when I stopped at the next display case and saw Vitruvian Man, or well, Vitruvian robot. 

“Ah, you recognize that!” Calcelmo said excitedly.

I looked up from the parchment to find him watching me very closely, eagerly. “No. Well yes, but it’s not right. It’s supposed to be a person, not a machine. This—” I pointed my finger at the parchment, “I don’t know what this machine is.”

“This is a Dwemer Animunculus, a Centurion, to be precise. Perhaps you had another name for them?” He frowned when I didn’t respond in the affirmative. “Come now, you must know this?”

I rubbed at the corner of my eyebrow. “I don’t. I don’t know what that is.”

He pulled himself upright and gripped the fabric of his robe by his shoulder like he was some proselytizing politician. The kind that, while we still had mass media, tried to convince all the little people that our sacrifice of working to death in shitty conditions with subpar resources to ensure the salvation of mankind—in other words, the lives of the rich and famous—was a noble task and would not be forgotten. It was forgotten the moment the cameras turned off.

“Dwarven military machines also range from the man-sized ‘Sphere’ warrior, which patrols the interiors of the ruins as a harmless ball only to emerge from it as a fully armed and armored automaton fighter,” Calcelmo recited, rapping his fingers against the glass above the diagram, “to the justly feared ‘Centurion’—”

“I’m sorry.” I rubbed at my temple again. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to go lie down…”

“Of course, Isana. You must be very tired from your journey,” Aicanter said, joining us. “Wouldn’t you agree, uncle?”

“What? Oh yes, fine.” He waved me away, already dismissed as he headed toward the door exiting the museum. “We can continue tomorrow.”

“Apologies for my uncle.” Aicanter said quietly as he led me back towards the living quarters. “He can be… rather zealous with his research into the Dwemer and has been very eager to speak with you.”

I frowned. “I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint him.”

A sad smile settled on his face as we stopped at my room. “He’s used to it,” he said with a sigh. “Have a good night, Isana.”

I read Yisra’s letter first, not because I was most eager to read hers, rather I wanted to enjoy the fuller conversation of Nildor’s letters uninterrupted. I unfolded her letter and immediately smiled with my first glance; her hand writing was big and bold with a lot of swoops but as it proceeded down the small page became tighter and tighter with less swooping as she ran out of space—some lines even turned at their ends to continue along the margins perpendicular to the rest of the letter. The letter was also smudged in places like someone had dropped water on the page. It was chaos, just like the writer.

> _Is—_
> 
> _Found out that ~~the goldenrod~~ Nildor was sending letters and since he was already footing the expense for messenger birds over the usual courier—_

I smiled as I could picture that conversation between the two of them, I just hoped that she didn’t make things uncomfortable for Nildor.

> _I hope you return soon and not just because we all miss you. I’ve never seen that mer so glum! Did you kiss him before you left? He keeps drifting into this far-off gaze and brushes his fingers across his mouth! Rundi thinks it's just sugar from all the pastries, but I know better. His apprentices are greatly amused and are enjoying their reduced workload with his distraction._
> 
> _Of course, it goes without saying that we’ll be ready to celebrate when you do return. The boys are already working on a new mead recipe in your honour. Borvir said that if you make it to the tavern there (some horrid name about blood and silver), see if you can steal their recipe. Don’t do it. The last thing you need is to end up in prison!_

I shook my head with some amusement as I could entirely imagine the brothers hanging over Yisra’s shoulders making their suggestions for the letter as she wrote. And no doubt, spilling their mead onto the page based on the faint alcoholic scent rising from the parchment. The letter continued:

> _Try to have some fun in the city if they let you out at all. If they do, find me a pretty silver bracelet of that famous Markarth silver as a gift when you return home._
> 
> _Yisra_

I laughed as I folded the letter back up, it was so like Yisra to make a demand like that. How fortunate for her that one of the first people I ran into was a silversmith that made jewelry. I’d have to make a trip back down to visit Adara and her mother before the month was up.

Nildor’s letters, by contrast, were impeccably tidy in script, although I did see the odd smudge of green or soil along the edges. I could quite easily imagine him bent over one of the workbenches, surrounded by the trappings of our work as he wrote.

> _Isana,_
> 
> _I must confess that while I realize it is foolishness on my part—you would only be at Whiterun at the writing of this letter and weeks away from receiving it—I can not prevent myself from putting pen to parchment to write to you. Words written are a poor substitute to our daily conversations and your company, but one must make do as one must._
> 
> _I do hope, upon your arrival at Whiterun, that your journey has not been too arduous for you to take a walk through the city, in particular, up to the Cloud District and view the Gildergreen tree there before the Temple of Kynareth. It is a remarkable tree, blessed by Kynareth, in a constant state of bloom. Some say that it was cut from the Eldergleam tree purported to be the oldest living thing in all Tamriel. I dare say, as biased as I am to the lush canvas offered by my own country, that I have not seen anything more beautiful. That is, to say, until I met you._
> 
> _Be safe and well, returning to me as soon as you can._
> 
> _Respectfully,_
> 
> _Nildor_

I flushed with the compliment and quickly opened the next letter. His second letter was of a similar nature; recommendations of plants and sights on my journey west, progress reports on my little project in the conservatory, as well as more personal notes that hinted further as to his feelings toward me. By contrast, his third letter laid his feelings bare.

> _My dearest Isana,_
> 
> _I confess my thoughts of you of late have turned heated. I may be over bold in saying so and more than a little presumptuous—we have shared words and gestures of affection which I guard closely to my heart to savour in these dull days—but I profess to hope for more._

I drew in a sharp breath as I read his words. I had hoped that he might be inclined to feel that way about me after the few less-than-chaste kisses we shared before I left. A flush of desire curling low in my belly as I thought about him writing those words, as I thought about him acting upon those words when we were reunited.

> _I pray my words do not dismay you or cause you distress; please be assured that my continued affection and devotion are not contingent on the physicality. To bask in your presence does as much to uplift me as the sun coaxes the flowers to turn their faces to its warmth._
> 
> _You must think me the fool with my clumsy words and gestures, but the memory of your lips on mine, the soft touch of your hand, renders me giddy and weak in the knees that I gladly play the fool to earn another such boon._
> 
> _Write to me please when you have the opportunity. Tell me if I’m the fool, or if the Divines have blessed me and you feel the same._
> 
> _Yours always,_
> 
> _Nildor_

I grinned to myself; his letters seemed so proper, much like the book of Altmer poetry that Yisra had jokingly given me, or long-lost books written about Regency romances. What would it look like to have that decorum slip, for that tempered passion to ignite? Would it take just an encouraging word, or would a more hands-on approach be required? To slowly peel the clothing from his body to reveal the golden expanse of his skin to my gaze for the first time. To have him moaning and gasping under me as I explored every bit of his body with my hands and mouth, until finally he begged me to take him, or his control finally snapped, and he took me…

I shifted restlessly under the bedclothes as the thought made me ache with longing; I might be over seven thousand years old, but I wasn’t dead.

I closed my eyes as my hand drifted down to the juncture of my thighs and my imagination filled my head with slow languid kisses that grow bold and heated with the sweep of a tongue; the scrape of teeth across the clavicle with just enough pressure to excite but not hurt; the contrast of cool air and a hot, wet mouth as it trailed kisses over my breasts; his firm hands continuing to explore as he travelled down my body, slipping a dexterous finger, then two inside of me in anticipation for what’s to come, curling and stroking that place that makes me see stars. Always touching, always tasting, and then, finally, the weight of his body over mine as he moved within my own… I growled in empty frustration even as I came on my own fingers.

Seven thousand years, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your continued appreciation of my story. I freely admit that I giggled when I imagined Yisra writing her letter and her observations of Nildor. And yes, Isana will be writing back *waggles eyebrows*


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Literary and culinary inspirations

My dreams were strange: picnics with clouds of butterflies and droning bees rolling in orgasmic delight among the fields of flowers—Linnaes and Freud would have their own field days with that—which gave way to a thrumming darkness like a heartbeat of some great creature lurking in the deeps. I awoke with a jolt, my heart racing from a mixture of pleasure and fear. I blinked into the inky darkness of my room and unfamiliar shapes in the dark stared back. I could still feel the subterranean thrum from my dreams echoing in my bones. Unnerved, I scrambled under my balled-up pack I used as an extra pillow for my magelight to push back the shadows into the stone forms of my quarters.

I took a drop of the tincture and laid back upon the stone bed, waiting for it to take effect.

I dozed fitfully, waking suddenly, time and time again.

Eventually, I gave up trying to sleep and since I couldn’t hear any movement from either of my hosts, I grabbed my journal, finding a usable page to write to Nildor. I winced at my penmenship—blobs of ink included—as I scratched his name on the page. I needed further practice at writing with a quill and ink, but no matter, I’m sure he’d overlook the messy letters in favour of the content. I pondered whether I should mention my altercation with Haelin and decided against it; it would only worry him, and it was done and over with. There was nothing that he or I could do about it now.

> Nildor,  
>    
>  I was delighted to find three letters waiting for me when I got to Markarth. And Yisra’s too (I do hope she didn’t give you much trouble with her demands). The journey was arduous at times but having your letters has lifted my spirits immensely.  
>    
>  I did not make it into Whiterun itself as I found myself entertained for the evening by the lovely folk of a Khajiiti merchant caravan. You would think after meeting Ilas-Tei, that cat people would not come as a shock, but it was. I think I found some people that have a more developed sweet tooth than you! They shared their dinner with me while we traded and were very sociable. I liked them very much.

I paused again in my writing; I didn’t really want to tell him about the Thalmor we came across either on their way to Northwatch or the uprising in the Reach. Instead, I skipped to the subject of his third letter.

> Your latest letter brought me great… pleasure. You are not a fool. If you are, we are fools together, but I say that we are both blessed.
> 
> Since waking at the College after my ordeal, I have been uncertain of many things—who I am now, my place in the world, who I can trust—but one thing is certain, I’m drawn to you. I’m drawn to you, intellectually, emotionally, and yes, physically. I’m blushing now as I write my confession to you, that should please you. I can picture your smile as you read this—as easily as I pictured you coming undone beneath me…

I chewed on the ragged end of the quill absently as I considered what I just wrote. Was it too forward or blatant for him? He was worried about offending my sensibilities, but would I offend his? I wrinkled my nose in disgust as I realized what I was doing; both the chewing on the feather that had been god-knows where, and second guessing myself. I wasn’t going to pretend to be something I was not and to that end, I was going to tell him everything about myself and my origins. I put the pen nib to the paper:

> There are things I need to tell you about myself—

I lifted my hand. Perhaps that was something best discussed in person when I returned to Winterhold. Tolfdir had urged caution and it was probably best that I didn’t put it into a letter that someone else could read. I scratched the line out.

Beyond my door, I could hear shuffling footsteps down the hall followed by a clatter of metal against stone.

> I must sign off now to start my first full day with Calcelmo, and I eagerly count the days until I can return to Winterhold. Until I can return to you.  
>    
>  ❀ Isana ❀

I smiled, doodling little flowers around my name to quickly finish off the letter, setting it aside to dry as I dressed, before folding it into as small square almost as tidy as Nildor’s letters had been. I was certain that Calcelmo or Aicanter could help me send it back to the college, I just hoped that it wasn’t going to be prohibitively expensive to send it by bird and get it into Nildor’s hands all the more quickly.

The clattering and banging in the kitchen grew louder as I approached until I could also hear a single voice, Aicantar’s, muttering apparently to themselves.

“Ah, good morning Isana. I trust you slept well?”

“Well enough, thank you. Calcelmo isn’t up?” I looked around the room ostensibly for the mer in question but really I was trying to determine what horrors were on the menu for breakfast. I noted with some relieve that there were ordinary, thick slices of bread sitting ready for the toasting fork and the nutty scent of millet rose from the pot hung over the fire that he was stirring.  
He waved his hand vaguely towards the door as he continued to to stir. “Hours ago. He’s already down directing the workers clearing the first hall in Nchuand-Zel.”

“Oh, should I, um, should I go there now?”

“What?” He raised his head abruptly and I winced at the near miss between his skull and the granite mantle. “Why would you… Oh, no, you’re not here for that!” He went back to stirring the bubbling pot. “Uncle would be most upset if his grand discovery was lost in an accident. Besides, there are plenty of Nords and others—” he wrinkled his nose and gave a dismissive wave of his spoon-wielding hand, flinging a glob of millet porridge into the fire as he did so, “down in the warrens that will take the risk for a copper or two.”

Before I could ask what he meant, he changed the subject. "Would you mind?” he asked, thrusting his chin toward the toasting fork. “I'm frankly relieved that you offered to cook some dwemer recipes. Uncle asked me to try the ones we found." He paused for a moment to pull a sheaf of parchments that were rolled and tucked into a box and passed them to me, dangerously close to the open flame, and went back to stirring. "But none of them seem to turn out well."

I pulled the now toasted slice of bread from the fire to set aside as I flipped through the parchments slowly with dawning horror.

"That's the one I tried last night," he said pointing to the one I stopped at. "There weren’t any specific instructions as to how long to cook it—" he shrugged.

I swallowed hard against the urge to be ill and pulled that parchment and a few others from the rest and handed them to him. "That’s because they’re usually served raw.” His nose wrinkled in disgust and I clarified further, “perhaps these are better suited for Banning's interests."

His brows pulled together in confusion, then slowly rose as my meaning dawned on him. "You mean..."

"Yes."

He clapped his hand over his mouth, and I looked around desperately for a bucket in case he was going to be sick, but my eyes were drawn back at a high-pitched wheeze escaping from him. His shoulders shook and tears welled up in his eyes.

"Aicantar? Are you okay?"

He shook his head then snorted, no longer able to contain his laughter. "Do. Not. Tell my uncle I've been feeding him food fit for the hounds. Although—" He snorted again then cleared his throat. "I'll give these to Banning, but perhaps I'll hold onto this one for safekeeping..." The corner of his mouth curled up with a sly smile.

I stared at him with some surprise at this revelation into his personality. No matter what else happened over the next month, I was going to make sure I stayed on his good side.

After our breakfast, Aicantar informed me that he liked to take some air before starting his research for the day. This usually consisted of a hot cup of tea at the top of his uncle’s tower, or on the odd occasion that the winds turned and blew from the north, a stroll just outside of the doors of the keep. That was, if one could tolerate the jibes from the guards, which was still preferable to the annoying attentions from the citizens in the lower part of the city. However, today, he was willing to risk the beggars in favour of seeking the ingredients I needed to make them a proper dwemer meal and send my letter to the college. He brushed aside my questions about Calcelmo stating that while he was busy directing the preliminary excavation of Nchuand-Zel we would be lucky to see him any earlier than dinner time. I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that…how long would I be kept waiting?

I hurried back to my room and gathered my cloak and a small purse of coins to pay for the letter; I spotted the dagger and hesitated for a moment. I was certain that I would be perfectly safe with my host at my side, nonetheless I threaded it onto my belt and tucked it at my back under my cloak. I meant to uphold my promise to Nildor. I grabbed my walking stick and hurried from the room to find Aicantar waiting by the door. He held out a basket toward me but upon spotting my stick, huffed and hung the basket from his own elbow.

As we made our way down the winding paths and stairways into the city, I wondered what I could possibly cook that they would consider a “dwemer” meal—there were so many cultural options that I was paralyzed with indecision. I knew what the Nords liked; grilled meats and fish, cheeses, breads, and thick stews. From my reading, the Altmer diet, at least for those residing in Summerset, consisted of a variety of fish, fruit, grains, and leafy greens. We stopped at the general good store to send my letter to Winterhold. It seemed an odd place initially to send my letter from, but in retrospect, a busy merchant would have a network established to contact their business partners and suppliers. We left with a small selection of dried spices (and salt!) to continue my search for something to make for dinner.

I was still considering my options when we arrived in the market. I cast a quick glance around the market; the meat stall was empty and the rain that had apparently fallen during the night had washed away the evidence of the previous day’s products.

“Hoggi’s stall is empty, thank Stendarr,” my companion echoed my own unspoken thoughts. “What would you like to get?”

“Um, can we look around first for what is available?”

“Of course.”

I wandered from stall to stall looking for inspiration. Before the world had gone to shit and everyone scattered to the winds to spend their last weeks as they may, Daniel, Michael, and I, shared kitchen duties to cook meals for each other. Daniel had been a whiz at baking; it appealed to his precise engineering mind. He made the most wonderful sweet and savory steamed buns from a recipe handed down from his great, great, great-grandmother, or so the story went. Michael was a grilling machine; if it could be cooked with fire, he was the one to go to. Unsurprising, if it grew by root or vine or branch, that was my strength. I liked nothing better than to experiment with edible flowers and herbs. With that thought in mind, I was suddenly struck by inspiration, not by any merchant’s offerings but by a riotous spill of large yellow flowers overgrowing a planter outside of a house. I hurried over and examined the flowers, thrilled to discover that they were what I had hoped. I rounded the planter and knocked on the door behind.

“What are you doing?” Aicantar hissed at me.

“I want some of the flowers.”

“What for?”

“To eat, of course! Oh hello!” An elderly Nord stood in the doorway, blinking at me with a wary glance in Aicantar’s direction. I pointed to the flowers, “are those yours?”

His head slowly pivoted to follow my gesture. “My wife’s. Maisie.” He stepped back and closed the door with a thud.

“Well, that was rude.”

Before I could respond to Aicantar’s complaint, the door swung open again revealing a diminutive woman swathed in a flour-dusted apron. Her eyes darted to the mer and settled firmly on me. “My husband said that a woman was asking about the flowers. What do you want with them?”

“I was hoping that I could take half a dozen of the flowers.”

Her eyes narrowed, “why?”

“To eat.”

“You don’t eat the flowers. You eat it when its done growing,” she explained slowly like she was speaking to a child or a particularly dimwitted person.

“For most fruits and vegetables, that is true, but these are an exception.” She still didn’t seem convinced. “I won’t hurt your harvest, I only want a few of the extra males. There’s more than are needed and they’re of no use once they’re done fertilizing the other flowers.”

The corner of her mouth twitched upwards. “You can tell them apart?”

“Yes. Let me show you.”

She was fascinated as I pointed out the difference between the flowers; showing her the small fruiting body at the base of the female flowers which were tucked in the center of the plant, compared to the skinny stems of the males on the outer bounds. In the end, she was more than happy to give me a full dozen of the blooms that she snipped from the plant with a bit of vicious glee before returning to whatever task we had interrupted. Her raised voice as she scolded her husband echoed through the door as we left.

“She seemed to have taken rather a lot of pleasure cutting those flowers once you told her that they were male,” Aicantar observed. He seemed a bit disturbed by it.

I bit back a grin and shrugged. “Perhaps. Does she have a large family?” She wouldn’t be the first person to express some frustration towards a partner with a bit of redirected violence, if only by trimming the greenery with an extra measure of zeal.

“Who’s to say. Nords...” he waved his hand, neglecting to continue whatever it was he was going to say. “What do you intend to do with these flowers now that you have them?”

“Stuff them. The rest of the ingredients shouldn’t be hard to find.”

Indeed, the rest of the ingredients were simple enough to acquire and a lump of lard to melt into oil to fry the flowers. The squash flowers were stuffed with minced pork, millet, and fresh herbs, finally dredged in a light batter fried to a crispy golden brown to be served with a green salad. While Aicantar wasn’t nearly as much fun in the kitchen as Daniel and Michael had been, for a few moments, my life seemed almost normal again.

I was quite pleased with my menu, which I had plenty of time to prepare as Calcelmo stayed down at Nchuand-Zel until the evening meal. He arrived and sat at the kitchen table without a word, having returned from the dig to wash up without either Aicantar or myself being aware that he had done so. I quickly dropped the stuffed flowers into the hot oil to serve immediately. The meal proceeded silently; I had read that Altmer diners did not normally converse as they ate, usually a bard or musician was employed to fill the silence. We didn’t have the benefit of such and silence felt uncomfortably awkward as we made our way through the meal with only the sound of the crackling kitchen fire and the occasional plink of cutlery on the plates.

“That was a fascinating meal. Quite Colovian-inspired. I look forward to the next.” Calcelmo pushed himself back from the table. “Nephew, don’t bother with the tea, I’ll be late returning from the site.

Startled by his sudden speech, I stumbled over my own words. “Um, what about your research?”

“I’m going back to it now.”

“No, I mean—your questions for me?”

“Yes, yes, we’ll get to that.” He waved me off and left the room without another word.

Once again I was left wondering how long I would be kept waiting. Why had he demanded that I come to Markarth if he had no intention of talking to me about my world?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for your kind words, comments and kudos. They keep the muse inspired 💌


	19. Chapter 19

A week passed and still I cooled my heels waiting for Calcelmo to have time for me. He was gone when I woke in the morning and returned to the living quarters for an evening meal only to vanish again with a hand wave and vague comment along the lines of “as soon as they breached the first hall”. However long that was supposed to take. 

I tried to find things to do to keep myself occupied. Aicantar had relinquished his evening culinary duties by passive aggressively remaining in his own workshop, tinkering with the scraps of metal limbs. I didn’t entirely mind as it gave me something to do in the mornings—a bit of shopping and exploring the lower part of the city, although I stayed well away from the western side of the city closest to the mines—then cooking in the late afternoon. Both mer seemed to find this an acceptable situation and slipped into their own routines quickly, but it was not something I wanted to encourage at all. I was not there to be their housekeeper! The sooner Calcelmo asked his questions, the sooner I could hop back onto the carriage to Winterhold and back to Nildor. I was impatient to find out in person what he thought of my written confession.

For the first couple of days when I wasn’t exploring or cooking, I perched myself on a stool at one of Aicantar’s benches. He eagerly shared his theories about the chunks of metal he was trying to reconstruct. He seemed disappointed that I had no interest or inclination to help him reassemble whatever the device was, despite his insistence that I should have an aptitude for it. “All Dwemer did”, according to him. He concluded that I must have been a strange anomaly to my kind, implying that I was a defect, I suppose, for not having the desire to build things with the metal. It didn’t help that the thing he was try to construct, or reconstruct, looked like a huge metallic spider. I liked my spiders in the non-threatening garden variety, thank you very much, not ones with two to three foot lengths of leg ending in sharpened points. I’m a horticulturist, not an entomologist.

After that, I started to avoid him a bit, spending more time out on the tower balcony sketching the view and writing notes to Nildor. When the weather was fair, I left Understone Keep and went down to the market for fresh ingredients to supplement a new “recipe” to present the two mer. Really I just needed to get out from under the oppressive stone and equally weighted stares from Aicantar. 

I returned to the museum after yet another trip down into the city, this time to send another letter off to Nildor, to the sound of a grumbling male voice complaining bitterly about my absence. 

“Ah! There you are, finally!” Calcelmo exclaimed as if I had been the one repeatedly walking away his requests for my time. “Come, come—I have some things to show you.” 

He turned without a further word and led me, with Aicanter following, through the museum to his personal workshop. I had no time to stop at the slab of stone standing in the middle of the room, curiously draped in a swath of coarse fabric, as he whisked us along to another set of the massive brassy doors ubiquitous to Understone Keep. 

“Just a moment…” He muttered, turned his back on us and rolled his shoulders around to shield our eyes from whatever it was he was doing. The slow, dull sound of stone grinding with movement echoed behind the large doors before they slowly swung open with an ease that belied their size. “Quickly now,” he chivvied us along to enter the room, like someone was snapping at our heels or was intent on stealing whatever secrets and treasures that lay beyond the doors. 

The room was pitch dark as the doors swung shut behind us and I slapped my hand to my pocket in panic, searching for my little glowstone, which of course, was in my quarters. I could feel the presence of Aicantar behind me, but it gave me little comfort, faced with Stygian void before me making me feel untethered in the darkness. Calcelmo’s footsteps echoed in the dark as he moved away to some unseen point. Without warning, blue light flared to life with a sharp, gaseous hiss before settling to the normal golden haze of the heavy brass braziers, and my eyes watered at the sudden change. 

I wasn’t aware of what was being said, my attention was wholly focused on the gleaming tanning bed in the room. There are no words for how creeped out I was at the sight; I tried to remain calm but all the fear and anxiety of that night came rushing back and I couldn’t tear my gaze from the stasis pod. Memories of lying in the dark with only the sound of fluid rushing in and my only friend, who had put me in that predicament, dying just outside. A hand landed on my shoulder and I startled with a shriek, immediately clapping my hands over my mouth. We weren’t supposed to be here. 

“Isana?” The hand on my shoulder carefully turned me around until I was staring into the wide amber eyes. “Isana, are you all right?”

My breath was locked in my chest. I was going to drown. I was drowning.

“Isana!” 

I blinked. Aicanter’s hands were on my shoulders and he looked agitated. I lowered my hands slowly. “I’m sorry, I—” my eyes darted to the side to stasis pod but it remained silent and dark. I shuddered and dropped my hands. “I’m sorry. The memory of being in that…”

“You aware the whole time? How are you not mad?” He looked horrified and mortified all at the same time. “I’m sorry, that was thoughtless. It’s probably not something you want to think about.”

“I don’t remember anything after the pod filled. I remember thinking that I was going to drown and then nothing.”

“That’s barbaric! We know that the Dwemer were a cruel race but to their own—why would they torture you in that manner?” 

I stared at him incredulously. We were the cruel race? More barbaric than the peoples of this time? They chopped the hands off starving orphans for stealing bread, for god’s sake—they were no better than we were! I suddenly didn’t have the energy to argue with him and slumped against the stone bench behind me. “It wasn’t meant as torture, at least that wasn’t my friend’s intent. Most people weren’t aware as I was when they were put into the pods. I wasn’t supposed to have been placed in one at all but left to die with the rest.”

“Left to die?”

I shrugged. “I wasn’t rich enough to buy my way in when I failed to meet the other criteria.”

“Yes, of course,” Calcelmo nodded his head in thought as he rejoined the conversation, returning to where we stood bearing a wooden box in his hands. I tried not to be offended that he apparently agreed that I would not have been worthy of saving.  
Aicantar, on the other hand, argued, “what criteria could they desire more than youth and, um…” He flushed and looked away. Well then, I could see he shared his uncle’s opinion.

“The ability to reproduce, for one,” I replied dryly. 

He looked back at me with a confused expression. The implication finally dawned on him as his eyes dropped to my belly. “Oh. I’m sorry,” he mumbled as his earlier flush grew to encompass his ears.

“Bah, offspring are immaterial if immortality was realized.” 

“Immortality? No.” I shook my head at Calcelmo’s statement. “We were trying to survive as a species and not go extinct like the dinosaurs.”

“Speeszees…Die…no…” Calcelmo frowned at the unfamiliar words, then waived his hand, dismissing my explanation entirely. “No matter. Here. We located this from the dig site.” He pulled a book from the wooden chest and held it out to me. It looked like it would crumble into dust if I breathed on it, nevermind dared to open it. “We’ve never encountered any writing by the Dwemer this old; an obviously a rudimentary precursor to the more developed runes. Open it. Do not worry, it’s been preserved with magic to prevent it from degrading further. Can you read it?”

I carefully opened the stiff cover of the book, holding my breath that it wouldn’t disintegrate despite the elder Altmer’s reassurance. It was not much bigger than a paperback and filled with the untidy scrawl of someone who had probably been more accustomed to typing on a tablet than writing on paper. Of course, with the EMP knocking out all electronics, we all had to resort to paper and pen to record anything. The pages were covered with sketched diagrams of the engineering variety, to-do lists, and technical notes in a personal shorthand that I couldn’t understand. I relayed that to Calcelmo and started to hand the book back.

“Look at the entry near the end,” he said impatiently. “It is unlike the others.”

I flipped to the back, passing several empty pages before stopping on one in particular. I noted with some shock the date at the top. 

“Would you translate it for us?”

I started to read the page aloud, slowly translating so they could understand:

> My best engineer did something very foolish today. I should have noticing his distress when I told him that the facility was closing its doors. I knew his partner had left but I hadn’t considered that he’d have anyone else with him... 
> 
> He smuggled in a woman, Isa—

The rest of the name was smeared but it was too much of a coincidence that it was anyone other than me, “into the facility. Had her situated in stasis before security could stop him. 

> Took a bullet to the shoulder. Fortunately for him, the drones interrupted the guards from getting another shot off. Unfortunately for the guards, the drones are far more effective than we had anticipated—one, at least, will not survive his injuries. 
> 
> The pod was damaged during the confrontation. The suspension flow valve is jammed in the open position. We don’t have the spare resources nor means to replace it while the pod is active—there isn’t time... We’ll just have to see if the damage was detrimental to the passenger once the revival process is initiated as scheduled.
> 
> My engineer was patched up and space reallocated for him. Looking forward to seeing that reunion—barring unit failure—in a hundred years’ time.
> 
> [Memo: adj. sec.seq. agro resp lmt param]

By the end of the report, I was mumbling through the fingers pressed to my lips. I couldn’t believe it. Daniel survived! He didn’t die that day like I thought. I looked at Calcelmo and Alicanter hopefully, barely containing my excitement and already planning in my mind, a trip back to wherever it was they found me to wake up Daniel. “You found others? Other working pods like mine?” 

Calcelmo shook his head. “No, just ruins.” He heaved a sigh. “Very disappointing.” 

I let the brittle pages slip from my numb fingers onto the table and pressed my knuckles against my mouth as my own crushing disappointment and grief broke free with a sob. My initial excitement, dashed with his blunt statement, crashed down on me; I had lost Daniel again in the passage of time. The older mer patted me awkwardly on the shoulder and retreated to the other side of the room without a word. I think he was uncomfortable with my emotional outburst, but I really didn’t give a damn. 

Alicanter glanced after his uncle, then picked up the pages I had carelessly discarded, scanning them even though he couldn’t read them himself. “I don’t know if it is a comfort to you, but the damage to your pod is likely what saved your life.”

I sniffed and wiped at my nose, frowning as I considered his reasoning. “What do you mean?”

“Of the intact vessels that were found; each had a solidified mineral deposit where the pipe entered. They were sealed shut.” He placed the pages on the table again. “Yours was the only one that wasn’t.”

“They all failed?”

“One way or another, yes.” He shifted on his feet, refusing to meet my eyes as he continued his explanation. “A good majority that were found in earlier chambers looked to have been intentionally damaged.”

“Intentionally damaged?” I echoed.

“The pods were severed from the rest of the machinery. The damage was old, very old. It likely occurred within the same century that they were put into use.”

I couldn’t wrap my mind around what he was telling me. The survivors tried to murder us in our sleep? Instead of waking us to rejoin society, we were deemed expendable, unwanted. I suppose on some level, I could understand why, particularly considering that some people made a big to-do and were only put into stasis due to their own greedy self-interest, not for their contribution to the survival of the species. People more worthy were pushed aside in favour of those with financial assets. But to kill everyone regardless of why they had been preserved? It was wanton destruction of some the best minds the human race had at the time. I shook my head at the revelation to find that Aicantar had continued to speak, oblivious to my own inner turmoil.

“It took an immense amount of work to remove your pod from the facility; the metal piping does not cut easily even with the magical resources at hand.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully as he came to some sort of realization. “That would explain why the chambers deeper within the mountain were otherwise preserved! The halls were simply collapsed making them impassable to any potential rescuer or sleeper alike.

“Based on the reports of your physical condition upon waking, its highly likely that any survivors would have succumbed to drowning before they ever manage to extricate themselves from the pod lacking any outside assistance.” He looked at me and flushed at whatever horror he read on my face. “I’m sorry…um, sorry we didn’t find your…” he said quietly, with a slight nod to the pages

“His name was Daniel. He was smart and funny, and he was the best friend I ever had.”

“I’m sorry we didn’t find your friend.” He came around the table and carefully wrapped his arm around my shoulders after some hesitation. “Come. Let’s leave this behind.” 

I was only too glad to comply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case the inline text doesn't work and/or for mobile readers:   
> [Memo: adj. sec.seq. agro resp lmt param] adjust security sequence aggression response limit parameter—i.e. how lethal, how quickly


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any errors—the muse finally cooperated so I'm launching this into the void before the muse has other ideas! Enjoy!

The fact that I could read the pages of the journal so easily, thrilled Calcelmo to no end and he had me spend several days transcribing what I could for his own use. Aicantar’s enthusiasm was reignited when they realized that the journals belonged to someone who had been involved in the building of the facility and he did his best to help me translate concepts that I didn’t know the Tamrielic equivalent for. Whether I had explained a concept correctly or not was an entirely different matter—I didn’t have an engineering background or any significant mechanical knowledge—beyond my university entry level physics courses so there were more than a few instances that I couldn’t provide any useful translation. Didn’t help that the journal’s author had a bit of a personal shorthand going on. 

Spending time with our heads bent together as we worked through the fragile pages of the journal reminded me of the mornings Nildor and I spent together as he taught me to read and write my new language. It was pleasant enough with Aicantar, I suppose, but I missed Nildor all the more for it. 

I was beginning to feel a bit anxious waiting to receive a reply from him. He expressed concern that he was being too forward and yet I took my response another step beyond his. Was it too much? Did it shock him? Should I write to him again and backpedal? I went to sleep in a world that hadn’t come to grips with the loss of instant communication and woke up in a world that resorted on bird carriers, traveling merchants, or “Pony Express” riders; the delay in receiving a response made me more than a little anxious. My anxiety sent me to Arnleif and Sons Trading Company, which also handled couriers for the city, on a daily basis. My anxiety was something that Lisbet, the wife of one of Arnleif’s sons—I’m not sure which—noted with some amusement when I checked in with her for the fifth time that week.

“Nothing yet!” Lisbet’s voice echoed over the stone as I stood in the doorway shaking the rain out of my shawl before it soaked through and soaked me. “Come by the fire before you freeze!” 

I skirted the heavy stone counters and pillars that delineated the shop and headed toward the back. She took one look at me and tossed me a linen rag for my hair and took my shawl spreading it across a chair back close to the fire. 

“Oof, it's pouring harder than Kynareth’s tears out there! You should have stayed up at the keep; the river’s dangerous in storms like this, overflowing its banks and sweeping people away to break on the stone at the bottom!” She handed me a clay mug that I gratefully wrapped my cold hands around and inhaled the herbaceous scent of the tea. “Don’t often get spring rains this heavy. About eight years ago—hmm, maybe it was one-ninety-two,” she shrugged, “rained for nearly two weeks straight. The Warrens, the mines flooded, most of the lower city in fact, as did the Karth Valley. We didn’t see hide nor hair of any caravans for nearly a month afterward.”

I looked toward the door as if I could have seen or heard the rain through the thick stone and metal. “Do you think they’ll be delayed with this rain?” I was no longer simply worried about a delayed letter but my ride back to the college. 

She shrugged her shoulders. “Hard to say until it stops.”

I stayed long enough to be polite and finish my tea, taking my leave when some other intrepid souls braved the weather to come to the shop. The river was lapping right at the top edge of the cut stone canal. As Lisbet had suggested, I took the safer, upper path by way of a back staircase. It was a longer route but did have an advantage of being more sheltered from the rain and I arrived back at the keep less damp than I would have been otherwise. 

The ever present guard outside of the museum was in his usual location, except he wasn’t lounging against the wall like he normally did but standing stiffly with his hands clenched at his sides. Perhaps he was feeling cold and damp with the current weather; there was a draught coming from down the hall making the gas light waver in the gloom. I gave him a little nod as I passed and caught the nervous flick of his eyes at the closed museum doors. Weirdness. Giving it no further thought beyond the mental shrug, I shoved the heavy door open only to be brought up short by a wall of gilded armour stepping into my path. I stepped back so not to have to crane my neck to look up at the Altmer before me. Both looked at me with cold amber eyes but said not a word. 

“Excuse me,” I murmured, stepping around one of them.

The one I tried to pass stepped into my path again. “The museum is closed to visitors.”

“I’m not a visitor. I’m a guest of Calcelmo’s.” I stepped the other direction to pass by them. A hand wrapped around my upper arm halting my movement. “Hey!”

They spoke over my head, words in a language I didn’t understand, then the guard gripping my arm all but dragged me by it to Calcelmo’s workroom, giving me a slight shove ahead of him when we arrived. 

“Pardon the interruption, Justiciar, but this ephem claims that she’s a guest here.”

The black robes turned in my direction. His hands were hidden in the voluminous folds of his sleeves, heavily decorated with fine golden embroidery—much higher quality embellishments that those that I had seen Ancano in. 

“I am Ondolemar, head Justiciar of Skyrim.” He paused waiting for me to respond; when I didn’t, he clarified further, “You have the honor of addressing a member of the Thalmor. Bask in it.” I must have let my distaste show on my face as his gaze hardened and lips thinned in annoyance when I failed to grovel or show any indication that I was going to kiss his ass. “And who exactly are you?”

Calcelmo replied for me, although not as I would have. “This is the Dwemer.”

“Dwemer researcher,” Aicantar jumped in quickly. “Isana is visiting us from Winterhold.”

Calcelmo scowled and grumbled something unintelligible. 

Ondolemar looked down his nose at me from his lofty height. “And what is your area of expertise?”

“Plants,” I said at the same time that Aicantar replied with “translations”. I quickly amended my answer, “I’m helping with translations, but my real interest is in plants that the Dwemer may have cultivated or gathered.”

“Whatever for?” he sneered, clearly unimpressed. “Such a pointless line of research.” He turned his back on me before I could reply. “Calcelmo, why have you not reported the presence of this—” he waved his hand in my direction, “if purely for security purposes? You are aware that any progress in your research must be reported to the First Emissary.”

I didn’t hear Calcelmo’s reply as Aicantar took the opportunity of the justiciar’s turned back to hustle me from the room before either of the other two Altmer could question it.

“Avoid Ondolemar,” he hissed at me as we made our way back to his workroom. “He is devoted to the Thalmor mandate and truly believes.”

“Drinking the company kool-aid,” I muttered. He looked perplexed. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“As I was saying, if he didn’t believe my—interjection—I’m not sure what the Thalmor would do if they came to believe that you are Dwemer.”

“What could they honestly do? They can’t just lock me up because I had sleep issues!” I didn’t like the look he gave me.

“Just… be careful. The Thalmor can and will justify any action in the name of protecting the interests of the Dominion in accordance to the White-Gold Concordat. With the political situation with the Nords, they wouldn’t need much pretense.”

The rain continued to fall heavy enough that the steward had declared it unsafe for anyone to traverse the steps into the lower part of the city due to flooding of the river. No one could go down to the city and no one came up to the keep. That meant that there was still no letter from Nildor and I was becoming more and more worried that my ride back to Winterhold, due to arrive within two weeks, would be delayed if the flooding was as bad outside the city as Lisbet had said had happened in the past. With Aicantar’s warning buzzing in the back of my mind, the keep had taken on a foreboding air that I just couldn’t shake. It was like there was someone watching me even when there was no one around. 

I managed to avoid running into Ondolemar as I made my way back and forth from the museum to the Nchuand-Zel dig site over next couple of days. Calcelmo insisted I go with him as his crew had finally cleared the main doors to the inner chamber and I didn’t have any excuses to offer to prevent myself from going. It was largely a frustrating ordeal for us both.

It was on my third day to the dig site, the fourth after my introduction to Ondolemar, that I overheard a particularly disturbing conversation. I had just gone through the last archway before I had to turn right to Calcelmo’s work space when I spotted the dull gleam of the golden armour of the Thalmor guards. I had only ever seen the pair in Ondolemar’s company. I quickly ducked into an alcove, squeezing myself into the shadows. From my vantage, I could see Calcelmo but not the other mer nor his other guard.

“Has she told you anything about the legendary weapon? It’s construction? Its original purpose?” 

“No, nothing. My nephew has tried to engage her with his animunculi project but she shows no interest or aptitude for the work and has offered nothing at all about the technology. Indeed, she spends more time with charcoal and parchment, and her gathered bits of plants.”

“Your nephew is incompetent.”

There was silence between the two mer for a few moments, moments I waited for Calcelmo to defend Aicantar. I was to be disappointed. He shrugged, “perhaps she truly knows nothing. I am coming to believe that she was lost due to a previously unknown timebreak. The evidence suggests—”

“Or perhaps she exhibits the deviousness of her race and requires a more directed motivation.” Ondolemar stepped into view, leaning in toward the other mer. I found myself leaning forward to hear his lowered voice. “I’m certain I don’t have to remind you of the strategic importance to the Dominion? The Stormcloaks are rallying support. Our asset has become uncooperative. The Dwemer weapon would safeguard our success.”

I gasped. Both Altmers' heads jerked up and I covered my mouth with both hands, withdrawing further into the shadows as they scanned the entrance of the corridor. I didn’t dare move or even breathe. What the hell did Calcelmo mean about a timebreak? That was something I would have to investigate later, but the more pressing concern was Ondolemar. Now I knew for a fact that he hadn’t believed Aicantar’s attempt to cover my identity, and the question now, was whether he was going to act on it. How much danger was I in? I knew one thing for certain, they couldn’t find me here, lurking and eavesdropping on their conversation. 

The moment he turned his head, I slipped out of my hiding spot and hurried back down the hall to the front doors of the keep. Shoving them open, I stepped out into the rain. My heart was pounding painfully in my chest and I fumbled in my pocket for the small vial.

“Hey,” a guard barked from his spot tucked under the upper balcony. “No one’s to leave the keep. Jarl’s orders.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I just needed to get out and see the sky.” I tipped a little of the vial’s contents onto my tongue and tried to get my breathing under control.

He looked at me skeptically and then at the grey sky. “Looks the same as it was yesterday.”

“I know. Just… five minutes for some fresh air? I won’t leave the landing.”

He grunted, “see that you don’t. I’ve no interest in dragging your corpse from the river.”

I turned my back on him, closed my eyes and tipped my face up letting the rain cool the heat of my skin as I considered my situation.

One: Ondolemar hadn’t bought Aicantar’s cover and knew my origin, but hadn’t made a move against me. Yet. 

Two: Calcelmo hadn’t reported my existence to the Thalmor despite having months to do so. Why he hadn’t, I couldn’t say. He was either not as devoted to the Thalmor cause as his nephew feared, or he really was that absent-minded. 

Three: I still had two weeks, maybe more, depending on the weather before I could put Markarth behind me. Being “out of sight, out of mind” as I had been at Winterhold might be beneficial—the Thalmor may shift their focus to other interests. I grimaced. If I could also stay out of sight of Ancano. I could say, with absolute confidence, that Nildor would keep the other Altmer away from the conservatory; I would have a safe haven to spend my days. 

“Stendarr’s mercy!”

My eyes popped open at the guard’s exclamation to find him and the other guard standing beside me staring off over the city walls to the mountains beyond. I followed their gaze expecting to see something unusual on the horizon when I realized it had stopped raining. In the distance, the clouds had broken to let the late morning sun peak through and a huge double rainbow spanned the Karth river valley. I drew a long, slow breath and felt the tension in my shoulders ease slightly at the sight. Rainbows couldn’t solve any problems, but in that moment, I felt like everything was going to be all right.


End file.
